A=^ 

A^o 

0  =—.^ 

0'=—? 

1  =2 

3==i 

8r 

THREE 


Edited  BVtQ^ 


SONGS  OF  THREE  CENTURIES. 


EDITED  BY 


JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


BOSTON": 
JAMES   R.    OSGOOD   AND   COMPANY, 

Late  Ticknob  &  Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 

1877. 


^K^ 


Copyright,  1875. 
By  JAMES   R.  OSGOOD  &  CO. 


University  Press:  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co., 
Cambridge. 


PREFACE. 


IT  would  be  doing  injustice  to  the  compiler  of  this  volume  to  suppose 
that  his  work  implied  any  lack  of  appreciation  of  the  excellent  antholo- 
gies already  published  in  this  country.  Dana's  "Household  Book  of  Poetry" 
is  no  misnomer  ;  and  the  honored  names  of  Bryant  and  Emerson  are  a  suf- 
ficient guaranty  for  "  Parnassus  "  and  the  "  Library  of  Song."  With  no 
thought  of  superseding  or  even  of  entering  into  direct  competition  with 
these  large  and  valuable  collections,  it  has  been  my  design  to  gather  up  in  a 
comparatively  small  volume,  easily  accessible  to  all  classes  of  readers,  the 
wisest  thoughts,  rarest  fancies,  and  devoutest  hymns  of  the  metrical  authors 
of  the  last  three  centuries.  To  u.se  Shelley's  definition  of  poetry,  I  have  en- 
deavored to  give  something  like  "  a  record  of  the  best  thoughts  and  happiest 
moments  of  the  best  and  happiest  minds."  The  plan  of  my  work  has  com- 
pelled me  to  confine  myself,  in  a  great  measure,  to  the  Ip'ical  productions 
of  the  authors  quoted,  and  to  use  only  the  briefer  poems  of  the  old  drama- 
tists and  such  voluminous  ^mters  as  Spenser,  Milton,  Dryden,  Cowper,  Pope, 
Byron,  Scott,  Wordsworth,  and  the  Brownings.  Of  course,  no  anthology, 
however  ample  its  extracts,  could  do  justice  to  the  illimitable  genius  of 
Shakespeare. 

It  is  possible  that  it  may  be  thought  an  undue  prominence  has  been  given 
to  the  poetry  of  the  period  beginning  with  Cowper  and  reaching  down  to 
Tennyson  and  his  living  contemporaries.  But  it  must  be  considered  that 
the  last  century  has  been  prolific  in  song ;  and,  if  Shakespeare  and  Milton 
still  keep  their  unapproachable  position,  "  souls  like  stars  that  dwell  apart," 
there  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  critical  essayist  of  the  twentieth  century 
will  make  a  large  advance  upon  the  present  estimate,  not  only  of  Cowper 
and  Burns,  but  of  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Shelley,  Keats,  Browning,  Ten- 
nyson, and  Emerson. 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century  is  the  earliest  date 
of  my  citations.  The  great  name  of  Chau^cer  does  not  appear  ;  and  some  of 
the  best  of  the  early  ballad  poetry  of  England  and  Scotland  has  been  reluc- 


IV  PREFACE. 

tantly  omitted.  James  I.,  whose  Queen's  Quhair  has  hidden  his  kingly- 
crown  under  the  poet's  garland,  William  Dunbar,  and  Sackville,  Earl  of 
Dorset,  may  well  be  thought  worthy  of  a  place  in  any  collection  of  English 
verse,  but  the  language  and  rhythm  of  these  writers  render  them  wellnigh 
unintelligible  to  the  ordinary  reader. 

The  selections  I  have  made  indicate,  in  a  general  way,  my  preferences ; 
but  I  have  not  felt  at  liberty  to  oppose  my  own  judgment  or  prejudice  to 
the  best  critical  authorities,  or  to  attempt  a  reversal  of  the  verdicts  of  Time. 
It  would  be  too  much  to  hope  that  I  have,  in  all  cases,  made  the  best  possi- 
ble exposition  of  an  author's  productions.  Judging  from  my  own  experi- 
ence in  looking  over  selected  poems,  I  cannot  doubt  that  my  readers  will 
often  have  occasion  to  question  the  wisdom  of  my  choice,  and  regret  the 
omission  of  favorite  pieces.  It  is  rarely  that  persons  of  equal  capacity  for 
right  judging  can  be  found  to  coincide  entirely  in  regard  to  the  merits  of  a 
particular  poem.  The  canons  of  criticism  are  by  no  means  fixed  and  infalli- 
ble ;  and  the  fashion  of  poetry,  like  that  of  the  world,  "  passeth  away." 
Not  only  every  age,  but  every  reader,  holds  the  right  of  private  judgment. 
It  would  be  difficult  for  any  literary  inquisitor-general  to  render  a  good 
reason  for  condemning  as  a  heretic  the  man  who  finds  the  "Castle  of  Indo- 
lence" pleasanter  reading  than  the  "Faerie  Queene,"  who  prefers  Cowperto 
Dryden,  Scott  to  Byron,  and  Shelley  to  Scott,  who  passes  by  Moore's  "  Lalhi 
Rookh"  to  take  up  Clough's  "  Bothie  of  Tober-na  Vuolich,"  who  thinks 
Emerson's  "Threnody"  better  than  Milton's  "Lycidas,"  and  who  would 
not  exchange  a  good  old  ballad  or  a  song  of  Burns  for  the  stateliest  of 
epics. 

The  considerable  space  which  I  have  given  to  American  authors  will,  I 
trust,  find  its  justification  in  the  citations  from  their  writings.  The  poetical 
literature  of  our  country  can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  a  longer  date  than  that 
of  a  single  generation.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  very  fathers  of  it  are  still 
living.  It  really  commenced  with  Bryant's  "  Thanatopsis "  and  Dana's 
"  Buccaneer."  The  grave,  philosophic  tone,  chaste  simplicity  of  language, 
freedom  of  versification,  and  freshness  and  truth  of  illustration,  which 
marked  the  former  poem,  and  the  terse  realism  of  the  "  Buccaneer,"  with 
its  stern  pictures  of  life  and  nature  drawn  with  few  strokes  sharp  and 
vigorous  as  those  of  Eetzsch's  outlines,  left  the  weak  imitators  of  an  artificial 
school  without  an  audience.  All  further  attempts  to  colonize  the  hills  and 
pastures  of  New  England  from  old  mythologies  were  abandoned  ;  our  boys 
and  girls  no  longer  figured  in  impossible  pastorals.  If  we  have  no  longer 
ambitious  Columbiads  and  Conquests  of  Canaan,  we  have  at  least  truth  and 
nature,  wit  and  wisdom,  in  Bryant's  "  Robert  of  Lincoln,"  Emerson's  "  Hum- 
blebee,"  Lowell's  "  Courtin',"  and  "  The  One-Hoss  Shay  "  of  Holmes. 

In  dealing  with  contemporary  writers  I  have  found  myself  embarrassed  by 


PREFACE.  V 

the  very  large  number  of  really  noticeable  poems,  many  of  which,  although 
in  my  own  estimation  vastly  better  than  those  of  some  of  the  old  versifiers 
whose  age  and  general  reputation  have  secured  them  a  place  in  this  volume, 
I  have  been  compelled  to  omit  solely  from  lack  of  space.  The  future  gleaner 
in  the  fields  over  which  I  have  passed  will  doubtless  find  many  an  ungar- 
nered  sheaf  quite  as  well  worth  preserving  as  these  I  have  gathered  within 
the  scanty  limits  of  my  compendium.  The  rare  humorists  of  our  time,  espe- 
cially such  poets  as  Holmes  and  Lowell,  can  be  only  partially  represented 
in  these  necessarily  brief  selections. 

It  may  be  observed  that  the  three  divisions  of  the  book  do  not  strictly 
correspond  to  the  headiugs  which  indicate  them,  —  the  first,  for  instance, 
beginning  before  Shakespeare  and  ending  somewhat  after  MUton.  It  is  dif- 
ficult to  be  quite  exact  in  such  classifications ;  and  as  it  seemed  desirable  to 
make  their  number  as  small  as  possible,  I  trust  the  few  leading  names  men- 
tioned may  serve  to  characterize  the  periods  they  accompany  with  a  suffi- 
cient degree  of  accuracy.  Pope  was  doubtless  the  great  master  of  what  is 
sometimes  spoken  of  as  artificial  verse,  shaping  the  mould  of  poetic  thought 
for  his  own  and  the  succeeding  generation  ;  but  as  Dryden  stands  in  point 
of  time  nearer  to  the  colossal  name  which  closes  the  first  period  of  English 
song,  he  has  been  chosen  as  a  representative  of  the  second,  in  connection  and 
contrast  with  Bums,  who,  in  his  vigorous  rebound  from  the  measured  pomp 
of  rhymed  heroics  to  the  sturdiest  and  homeliest  Scottish  simplicity,  gave  to 
the  modern  lyric  its  inspiration,  striking  for  the  age  the  musical  pitch  of 
true  and  tender  emotion,  as  decidedly  as  Wordsworth  has  touched  for  it  the 
key-note  of  the  thoughtful  harmonies  of  natural  and  intellectual  beauty. 
Teimyson  undoubtedly  stands  at  the  head  of  all  living  singers,  and  his  name 
might  well  serve  as  the  high-water  mark  of  modem  verse  ;  but  as  our  vol- 
ume gives  a  liberal  space  to  American  authorship,  I  have  ventured  to  let 
the  name  of  the  author  of  "  Evangeline "  represent,  as  it  well  may,  the 
present  poetic  culture  of  our  English-speaking  people  at  home  and  abroad. 

WhUe  by  no  means  holding  myself  to  a  strict  responsibihty  as  regards  the 
sentiment  and  language  of  the  poems  which  make  up  this  volume,  and  while 
I  must  confess  to  a  large  tolerance  of  personal  individuality  manifesting  it- 
self in  widely  varying  forms  of  expression,  I  have  still  somewhat  scrupu- 
lously endeavored  to  avoid  in  my  selections  everything  which  seemed  liable 
to  the  charge  of  irreverence  or  questionable  morality.  In  this  respect  the 
poetry  of  the  last  quarter  of  a  century,  with  a  few  exceptions,  has  been  note- 
worthy for  purity  of  thought  and  language,  as  well  as  for  earnestness  and  re- 
ligious feeling.  The  Muse  of  our  time  is  a  free  but  profoundly  reverent 
inquirer  ;  it  is  rarely  foimd  in  "  the  seat  of  the  scomer."  If  it  does  not 
always  speak  in  the  prescribed  language  of  creed  and  formula,  its  utterances 
often  give  evidence  of  fresh  communion  with  that  Eternal  Spirit  whose 


VI  PEEFACE. 

responses  are  never  in  any  age  or  clime  withlield  from  the  devout  ques- 
tioner. 

My  great  effort  has  been  to  make  a  thoroughly  readable  book.  With 
this  in  view  I.  have  not  given  tedious  extracts  from  dull  plays  and  weary 
epics,  but  have  gathered  up  the  best  of  the  old  ballads  and  short,  time- 
approved  poems,  and  drawn  largely  from  contemporary  writers  and  the 
waifs  and  estrays  of  unknown  authors.  I  have  also,  as  a  specialty  of  the 
work,  made  a  careful  selection  of  the  best  hymns  in  our  language.  I  am 
prepared  to  find  my  method  ojien  to  criticism  from  some  quarters,  but  I 
have  catered  not  so  much  for  the  scholarly  few  as  for  the  great  mass  of 
readers  to  whose  "  snatched  leisure  "  my  brief  lyrical  selections  would  seem 
to  have  a  special  adaptation. 

It  only  remains  for  me  to  acknowledge  the  valuable  suggestions  and  aid 
I  have  received  from  various  sources  during  the  preparation  of  this  volume, 
and  especially  the  essential  assistance  I  have  had  from  Lucy  Larcom  of 
Beverly  Farms,  to  whose  services  I  have  before  been  indebted  in  the  com- 
pHation  of  "  Child  Life." 

J.  G.  W. 

Amesburt,  9th  mo.,  1875. 


CONTENTS. 


FROM  SHAKESPEARE  TO  MILTOTT. 

Page 

Thought Lord  ThoTuas  Vaux      .  3 

Majesty  of  God Thomas  Stcrnlwld    .     .  3 

No  Age  content  with  his  own  Estate     .     .  ff.  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey  3 

Pleasure  mixed  with  Pain Sir  Thomas  JFyait  .     .  i 

A  Description  OF  SUCH  A  ONE  AS  HE  WOULD  LOVE     "        '<  "      .     .  4 

The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love    .     .  Christo2)her  Marlowe     .  4 

The  Nymph's  Reply Sir  Walter  Raleigh  .     .  5 

The  Pilgrim "       "           "      .    .  5 

The  Soul's  Errand "       "           "      .     .  5 

Sonnets Sir  Philip  Sidney     .     ,  6 

Lament  for  Astrophel  (Sir  Philip  Sidney)  3faUliew  Roydon  ...  7 

Angelic  Ministry Edmund  Spenser ...  7 

The  True  Woman "            "       ...  7 

From  the  Epithalamium 

Una  and  the  Lion 

The  House  of  Riches 

The  Bower  of  Bliss "            "       ...  9 

Content  and  Rich Robert  Southwell ...  10 

A  Summer's  Day Alexander  Hume      .     .10 

The  Soul Sir  John  Davies  ...  11 

Contentment TliomasNash.     ...  12 

The  Lessons  of  Nature William  Drumvwnd    .  12 

To  his  Mistress,  the  Queen  of  Bohemia      .  Sir  Henry  Wotton    .     .  13 

The  Good  Man "      "       .    «*         .     .  13 

Revenge  of  Injuries Lady  Elizabeth  Carew  .  13 

From  an  Epistle  to  the  Countess  of  Cumber- 
land       Saynuel  Daniel     ...  14 

My  Mind  to  me  a  Kingdom  is William  Byrd     ...  15 

Songs : 

Ariel's  Song William  Sliakes2)eare    .  16 

The  Fairy  to  Puck "              "            .16 


VIU                                                   CONTENTS. 
Amiens's  Song 

William  ShaJcespeare    . 

it                      tc 

((                  << 
((                    (( 
<(                  (( 
i(                  (( 

Bcfi  Jonson      .... 

.     16 

A  Sea  Dirgk    

.     16 

Hark  !  hakk  !  the  Lark  ! 

Under  the  Greenwood-Tree     .... 

Dirge  for  Fidele     

Sonnets . 

.     16 
.     16 
.     16 
.     17 

The  Noble  Nature      ........ 

.     18 

Song  of  Hesperus 

i<        (( 

.     18 

On  Lucy,  Countess  of  Bedford  .... 

<i        (( 

.     19 

The  Sweet  Neglect 

((        (( 

.     19 

How  near  to  Good  is  what  is  Fair  !  .    . 

<(        (( 

.     19 

Epitaph  on  Elizabeth  L.  H 

<(           <c 

.     19 

Love  will  find  out  the  Way      .... 

Unknovm 

.     19 

May-Day  Song 

(C 

.     20 

Begone  Dull  Care  ! 

i( 

.     20 

KoBiN  Goodfellow 

Bishop  Eichard  Corbett . 
Unknown   ..... 

.     20 
.     21 

Edom  o'  Gordon 

(C 

.     22 

Take  thy  Auld  Cloak  about  thee  .    .    . 

(( 

.     24 

The  Barring  o'  the  Door 

l( 

.     24 

He  that  loves  a  Rosy  Cheek 

The  Sirens'  Song 

Song 

Fair  and  Unworthy 

Music 

TJiomas  Carew     .     .     . 
William  Browne      .     . 

Sir  Robert  Ayton .     .     . 

William  Strode  .     .     . 

Thomas  Heywood      .     . 
((             <( 

Henry  King    .... 

.     25 
.     25 
.     25 
.     26 
.     26 

Good-Morrow  ........... 

.     26 

Search  after  God  ......... 

.     26 

Sic  Vita          .         ......... 

.     27 

Elegy     

((        (( 

.     28 

I  'll  never  love  thee  more 

Death  the  Leveller 

Marquis  of  Montr 
James  Shirley 
E.Herbert  {Earl  0^ 

ose     . 

fCherbu 
Tie.     . 

ace     . 

.     28 

.     28 

rtj)  29 

Evening  Hymn 

Wishes 

To  Althea 

Sir  TJiomas  Brou 
Eichard  Crashaw 
Sir  Eichard  Lovcl 

.     29 
.     29 
.     30 

To  Lucasta 

Robert  Herrick     ,    .     . 

.     30 

To  Daffodils 

.     30 

To  Blossoms 

To   KEEP  A  TRUE   LeNT 

Virtue   

The  Flower 

((            (( 
((            <( 

George  Herbert 
((             <( 

<(             <( 

Henry  Vaughan 
<<             <( 

George  Wither 

.     31 

.     31 
.     31 
.     31 

Rest 

The  Bird 

.     32 
.     32 

They  are  all  gone 

For  one  that  hears  himself  much  praised 

.     33 
.     33 

CONTENTS. 


IX 


Companionship  of  the  Muse George  Wither 

Thoughts  in  a  Gakden Andrew  Marvcll 

The  Bermudas "  " 

Hymn  on  the  Nativity John  Milton    . 

Sonnets : 
On  arriving  at  the  Age  of  twenty-three       "        " 

On  his  Blindness "        " 

Prayer Thomas  Eltvood 

Resignation    . Richard  Baxter 

In  Prison Sir  Roger  U Estrange 

Old  Age  and  Death Edmund  Waller 

Of  Myself Abraham  Cowley 

Liberty "  " 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  BURNS. 


Song  for  Saint  Cecilia's  Day,  1687 
Under  Milton's  Picture  .  .  .  . 
Character  of  a  Good  Parson  .     .     . 

Reason 

Morning  Hymn 

Hymn 

Paraphrase  op  Psalm  XXIII.  .     .     . 

The  Universal  Prayer 

Happiness 

Song 


The  Painter  who  pleased  Nobody  and  Every- 
body      

Careless  Content   

From  the  "Castle  of  Indolence"  .... 

A  Hymn 

Grongar  Hill     

The  Braes  of  Yarrow 

The  Heavenly  Land 

Ye  Golden  Lamps  of  Heaven,  farewell  !     . 

Jesus,  Lover  of  my  Soul 

Love  Divine,  all  Love  excelling    .... 

Ox  the  Death  of  Dr.  Levett 

The  Schoolmistress 

Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyard  . 
Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College 

Dirge  in  Cymbeline 

Ode  to  Evening . 

The  Chameleon 

From  "The  Deserted  Village" 


John  Dryden 


Thomas  Ken  .     . 
Joseph  Addison    . 
<<  <( 

Alexander  Pope    . 

Allan  Ramsay 

John  Gay   .     .  . 

t/b/m  Byrom    .  . 

James  Thomson  . 
if           (I 

John  Dyer  .    .     , 

William  Hamilton 

Isaac  Watts    .     . 

Philip  Doddridge 

Charles  Wesley    . 

Axigustus  M.  Toplady 

Samuel  Johnson  , 

William  SJicnstone 

Thomas  Gray .     . 
(<  (< 

William  Collins  . 

Jam£S  Merrick 
Oliver  Goldsmith . 


CONTENTS. 


The  Friar  of  Orders  Gray TJiomas  Percy 

Loss  OF  THE  KoYAL  George William  Cowper . 

Lines  to  my  Mother's  Picture "           " 

Mysteries  of  Providence "           " 

The  Mariner's  Wife William  Julius  Micklc 

The  Hermit James  Bcattie  .     . 

The  Dead John  La,nghorne  . 

The  Three  Warnings Mrs.  Thrale    .     . 

TiiE  Sabbath  of  the  Soul An7ia  L.  Barhauld 

The  Death  of  the  Virtuous "               " 

Life 

What  ails  this  Heart  o'  mine  ? Susanna  Blamire 

To  the  Cuckoo John  Logan 

Yarrow  Stream "         " 

Bonnie  George  Campbell Unknown    . 

Waly,  waly,  but  love  be  Bonny     ....  " 

Lady  Mary  Ann " 

The  Boatie  rows " 

Glenlogie " 

John  Davidson " 

Had  I  a  Heart  for  Falsehood  framed    .     .  Richard  B.  Sheridan 

The  Minstrel's  Song  in  Ella Thomas  Chattcrton 

Isaac  Ashford George  Crahhe  .    . 

A  Wish Samuel  Rogers 

Italian  Song "          " 

Of  a'  the  Airts  the  Wind  can  blaw  , 

Mary  Morison 

Highland  Mary 

To  Mary  in  Heaven 

A  Vision 

A  Bard's  Epitaph 

Elegy  on  Captain  Matthew  Henderson 

AuLD  Robin  Gray Lady  Anne  Barnard 

The  Tiger William  Blake 

To  the  Muses "         " 

The  Gowan  glitters  on  the  Sward     .     .     .  Joanna  Baillie 

The  Land  o'  the  Leal Lady  Caroline  Nairrt 

The  Soldier's  Return Robert  Bloomfield 

Lament  for  Flodden Jane  Elliott     .     . 

The  Midges  dance  aboon  the  Burn      .     .     .  Robert  Tannahill 

The  Braes  o'  Balquhither "            " 

To  the  Lady  Anne  Hamilton William  R.  Spencer 

The  Dead  who  have  died  in  the  Lord    .     .  James  Glassford  . 

Night  and  Death Josejjh  Blmico  White 

Ode  to  an  Indian  Gold  Coin John  Lcyden 


Robert  Bums 


CONTENTS. 


XI 


■Written  after  Eecovert  from  a  Dangerotts 

Illness Sir  Humpliry  Davy 

Cupid  grown  careful George  Croly    .     . 

To  THE  Herb  Rosemary Henry  Kirke  White 

To  AN  Early  Primrose 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem 

Lines   written    in   Richmond    Churchyard, 

Yorkshire Herbert  Knowles  , 


90 
91 

92 
92 
93 

93 


FROM  WORDSWORTH  TO  LONGFELLOW. 


Intimations  of  Immortality 

The  Daffodils 

William  Wordsworth 

<C                         (< 

((                (( 

((                         C( 

((                (( 
((                  (( 
((                (( 
((                (< 
<(                <( 
((                <( 
l(                (< 

Sir  Walter  Scott     - 

97 
99 

To  THE  Cuckoo 

100 

A  Memory  

100 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight 

Yarrow  unvisited 

100 
101 

On  a  Picture  of  Peele  Castle  in  a  Storm  . 
Ode  to  Duty 

101 

102 

To  Sleep     

103 

The  World 

103 

To  THE  River  Duddon 

Young  Lochinvar 

103 
.     104 

A  Serenade    

((                <(                u 

((          (<          <( 
(<          ((          <( 
<(           ((           (( 
<(          <(          <( 
((           ((           (( 
(f          ((          (( 

105 

Song 

105 

Lay  of  the  Imprisoned  Huntsman  .... 
The  Trosachs 

105 
105 

Coronach    

106 

Christmas-Time 

107 
107 

Samuel  Taylor  Colerid 

ti          <i          (( 
<(           ((          (( 

Robert  Soutlmj  .     . 

76  108 

Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of  Cha- 

109 

Christabel 

110 

Stanzas  ...         

117 

The  Inchcape  Rock 

((           <( 
<(           << 

Charles  Lamb 
<(           (( 
((           « 

James  Hogg  , 
((         (( 

Thomas  Moore 
((             a 

117 

Brough  Bells 

118 

The  Housekeeper 

120 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces 

Hester 

120 
120 

The  Rapture  of  Kilmeny 

Fly  to  the  Desert 

121 
121 
123 

The  Mid  Hour  of  Night     . 

124 
124 

Xll 


CONTENTS. 


O  THOU  WHO   DRY'sT  THE   MoURNER's  TeAR 

Thou  art,  0  God  ! 

She  walks  in  Beauty 

The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib    .    .     . 

The  Lake  of  Geneva 

Mont  Blanc 

The  Immortal  Mind 

Stanzas  written  in  Dejection  near  Naples 

To  a  Skylark 

One  "Word  is  too  often  profaned    .    .     . 

The  Eve  of  Saint  Agnes 

The  Common  Lot 

Forever  with  the  Lord 

Prayer  

Whilst  Thee  I  seek 

There  was  Silence  in  Heaven    .... 

to  a  bereaved  mother 

Lament  

The  Last  Man 

Glenara     

Lord  Ullin's  Daughter 

Hymn  to  the  Flowers 

Address  to  an  Egyptian  Mummy      .     .     . 

A  Ghost  at  Noon 

Forest  Worship 

Corn-Law  Hymn 

If   thou  WERT   BY  MY   SiDE 

Not  ours  the  Vows 

An  Angel  in  the  House 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  and  the  Angel  .  .  . 
A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea  .  .  . 
Thou  hast  sworn  by  thy  God  .... 
She  's  gane  to  dwall  in  Heaven     .     .     . 

The  Evening  Cloud     

From  the  Recesses 

Hymn 

The  Bucket    

After  a  Summer  Shower 

Mariner's  Hymn 

The  Soul's  Defiance 

0,  WHY  should  the  Spirit  of  Mortal  be 

PROUD  ? 

The  Jackdaw  of  Rheims 

My  Life  is  like  the  Summer  Rose  .  .  . 
The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore  .... 


Thomas  Moore   ....     124 
"       .     .    .     .     124 

George  Gordon  {Lord  Byron)   125 


Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


John  Keats    .     .     . 
James  Montgomery . 


Helen  Maria  Williams 
Unknovm .... 
John  Quincy  Adams 
Walter  Savage  Landor 
Thmnas  Campbell 


Horace  Smith 

a  <( 

Ebeiuzer  Elliott 


Beginald  Heber 
Bernard  Barton 
Leigh  Hunt   .     . 

Allan  Cunningham 


John  Wilson      .     . 
Sir  John  Bowring  . 

Samuel  Woodworth 
Andrews  Norton 
Caroline  Bowles  Southey 
Lavinia  Stoddard  , 

William  Knox  .     . 
Richard  H.  Barham 
Richard  Henry  Wilde 
Charles  Wolfe    .    , 


CONTENTS. 


Xlll 


Sweet  Home John  Howard  Payne 

The  Childe's  Destiny Felicia  Hcmaiis  . 

KiNDKED  Hearts "         " 

Marriage Maria  Brooks     . 

May James  G,  Pcrcival 

To  Seneca  Lake <<«.<< 

The  Fall  of  Niagara John  G.  0.  Brainard 

Epithalamium "       "        " 

The  Memory  of  the  Heart     ....  Daniel  Webster  .    . 

The  American  Flag Joseph  Hodman  Brake 

Passing  away Joh7i  Pierpont 

To  Congress "           " 

Jeanie  Morrison William  Motherioell 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt Thomas  Hood     . 

Morning  Meditations "        " 

Song "        " 

Euth "        " 

Hymn  of  Nature W.  B.  0.  Peabody 

I  would  not  live  alway W.  A.  Muhlenberg 

The  Irish  Emigrant Lady  Duffcrin    . 

The  Belle  of  the  Ball Winthrop  M.  Pracd 

Love  and  Friendship William  Leggett     . 

A  Health Edward  Coate  Pinhney 

Burns Fiiz-GreeneHalleck 

On  a  Portrait  of  Red  Jacket     ...  "            " 

Sonnet William  Lloyd  Garrison 

Ambition John  Neal     .     .     . 

Pilgrim  Song George  Lunt  .     .     . 

The  Family  Meeting Charles  Sprague      . 

Our  Mary Henry  Scott  Pdddell 

The  Forging  of  the  Anchor   ....  Samuel  Ferguson    . 

The  Bells  of  Shandon Francis  Mahony  (Father  Pj 

Unseen  Spirits Nathaniel  Parker  Willis 

From  Melanie "         '«         «< 

BiNGEN  ON  THE  Rhinb Caroline  Elizabeth  Norton 

The  Sabbath Edward  Lord  Lytton 

*^-*^^TH Frances  Anne  Kemble 

Hymn John  Sterling 

Labor Frances  S. 

The  Present  Heaven Jones  Very 

To  the  Painted  Columbine '*      '< 

Evening  Song Tliomas  Miller 

Morning John  Keble    . 

Inward  Music «      << 

0  Saviour  !  whose  Mercy Sir  Robert  Grant 


153 
153 
154 
154 
155 
155 
155 
156 
156 
156 
157 
158 
159 
160 
160 
161 
161 
162 
162 
163 
163 
165 
165 
165 
166 
163 
168 
168 
169 
169 
170 
'rotd)  171 
172 
172 
173 
174 
175 
175 
175 
176 
176 
177 
177 
178 
178 


XIV 


CONTENTS. 


Trust Dean  of  Canterhury     .     .     .  179 

A  Petition  TO  Time B.W.  Procter  {Barry  Cornwall)  \79 

A  Prayer  in  Sickness "          "           "             "   .  179 

The  Brookside Richard  Monckton,  Milnes .     .  181 

The  Men  of  Old "          "          "        .     .  180 

The  Palm  and  the  Pine "          "          "       .     .  180 

Tibbie  Inglis Mary  Howitt 181 

The  Departure  of  the  Swallow      .     .  William  Howitt     ....  182 

Lucy's  Flittin' William  Laidlaw  ....  182 

Summer  Days Unknoivn 183 

Losses Frances  Broicnc 184 

We  are  Brethren  a' Robert  Nicoll 184 

The  Island Richard  H.  Dana  ....  185 

The  Pirate «       «      «<        ....  186 

The  Spectre  Horse <t      «      «       ....  185 

To  A  Waterfowl William  Cicllcn  Bryant  .     .  187 

Thanatopsis "         "          •«        .    .  187 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers     ....  "          "          "         .     .  188 

To  the  Fringed  Gentian "          "          "         .     .  189 

The  Battle-Field "         "          "         .     .  189 

From  "The  Rivulet" "         "          "         .     .  190 

The  Burial  of  Love "         "          "        .     .  190 

The  Sleep Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning   .  190 

Bertha  in  the  Lane "         "          "             .  191 

A  Musical  Instrument "         "         **             .  193 

Cowper's  Grave "         "     ,     "             .  194 

At  the  Church  Gate  .......  Williain  Makepeace  Thackeray  195 


Mariana Alfred  Tennyson 

•'Break,  break,  break  ! " "           " 

Memory "           " 

Doubt "            " 

The  Larger  Hope "           " 

Garden  Song "           " 

Bugle  Song "           " 

The  Apology Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 

To  Eva  

Thine  Eyes  still  shone "          " 

Each  and  All "          " 

The  Problem "          " 

Boston  Hymn "          " 

The  Soul's  Prophecy "          " 

The  Bells Edgar  A.  Poc     . 

Evelyn  Hope Robert  Browning 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra "          " 

The  Lost  Leader "          *' 


195 
196 
196 
197 
197 
198 
199 
199 
199 
200 
2(10 
200 
201 
202 
202 
203 
204 
207 


CONTENTS. 


XV 


Paul  Revere's  Ride Henry  IV,  Longfellow 

Maidenhood 

A  Psalm  of  Life 

Resignation 

Santa  Filomena 

Hawthorne 

To-day  and  To-morrow Gerald  Massey    . 

The  Grave  by  the  Lake John  G.  JVhitticr 

My  Birthday 

The  Vanishers 

In  School-Days 

Laus  Deo  ! 

The  Eve  of  Election 

The  Touchstone William  AllingJiam 

Small  Beginnings Charles  Mackay .     . 

Tubal  Cain "            " 

The  Living  Temple Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 

Dorothy  Q "            "          «' 

The  Voiceless "            "          " 

Robinson  of  Leyden "            "          " 

The  Deacon's  Masterpiece "            "          " 

The  Chambered  Nautilus "            "          " 

Under  the  Violets "            "          " 

The  Heritage James  Eussell  Lmcell 

New  England  Spring "        "          •' 

The  Courtin' "        "          " 

Ambrose "        "          " 

After  the  Burial "        "          " 

Commemoration  Ode "        "          " 

The  Alpine  Sheep Maria  White  Lowell 

Campanile,  de  Pisa Thomas  W.  Parsons 

On  a  Bust  of  Dante *'            " 

Wishing John  G.  Saxe     .     . 

Sleep  and  Death "        "         .     . 

A  STILL  Day  in  Autumn Sarah  Helen  Whitman 

The  Settler Alfred  B.  Street      . 

Knowing CJiristopher  P.  Cranch 

Sleepy  Hollow William  E.  Channing 

From  "A  Tribute  to  a  Servant"    .     .     .  Julia  Ward  Hoive  . 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic    ....  "        "        "      . 

Inspiration H.  D.  Thoreau  .     . 

Milton's  Prayer  in  Blindness     ....  Elizabeth  Lloyd  Howell 

The  Burial  of  Moses C.  F.  Alexander 

Christmas  Hymn E.  H.  Sears  .     . 

The  Way,  the  Truth,  and  the  Life   .     .  Theodore  Parker 


XVI 


CONTENTS. 


The  Will  of  God 

The  Right  must  win 

Seen  and  Unseen 

All  's  well 

Royalty      

The  Kingdom  of  God 

The  New  Sinai 

From  the  "Bothie  of  Tobek-Navuolich  " 

The  Stream  of  Life 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus 

The  Golden  Sunset 

Quiet  from  God 

The  Love  of  God 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee 

My  Times  are  in  Thy  Hand 

Cana 

The  Inner  Calm 

The  Master's  Touch 

Up  Above 

The  other  World 

O  may  I  JOIN  THE  Choir  Invisible  !      .    . 

The  Three  Fishers 

The  Sands  of  Dee 

A  Myth 

Coming  Home 

Too  Late    

Outward  Bound      

Until  Death 

Why  thus  longing  ? 

Woman 

The  Chase 

The  Lover      

The  Shepherd-Boy 

Death  and  the  Youth 

The  Sisters 

Krumley 

The  Sure  Witness 

Her  last  Poem 

Field  Preaching     

Nearer  Home 

Peace     

Keith  op  Ravelston 

Eventide 

The  Iconoclast  

"It  is  more  blessed" 


Frederic  William  Faher 
David  A.  JFasson  . 


Richard  Chcnevix  Trench 
Arthur  Hugh  Clough 


Samuel  Longfellow . 
Unknown .... 
Eliza  Scudder  ,  . 
Sarah  F.  Adams  . 
Anna  L.  Waring  . 
James  Freeman  Clarke 
Horatius  Bonar ,     . 


W.  Alexander   .     , 
Harriet  Beechcr  Stowe . 
Mrs.  Lewes  {George  Eliot) 
CJiarles  Kingsley     . 


Diimh  Mulock  Craik 


Unknown .     .     . 
Harriet  Winslmo  Sewall . 
Coventry  Fatmore 


Letitia  E.  Landon 
((  << 

Auhrey  De  Vere 
Alice  Carey   . 


Phebe  Carey 


Sydney  Ddbell 
Tlwmas  Burbridge 
Rose  Terry  Cooke 


((         (< 


CONTENTS. 


XVll 


Love 

Indian  Names 

Eternal  Ligut 

Wordsworth 

The  Burial  of  the  Dane    .    .     .    . 

The  Mountains 

An  Oriental  Idyl 

The  Voyagers     

The  Song  of  the  Camp 

The  Poet  of  To-day 

Lady  Barbara    

The  Terrace  at  Berne 

Urania 

The  Last  Word  . 

The  Artist 

Bertha  

The  Upright  Soul 

O  Lassie  ayont  the  Hill  ! .    .    .     . 

Hymn  for  the  Mother 

An  Angel's  Visit 

After  Death 

Weary 

The  Sunflower 

Vespers 

Charity 

The  Meeting  Waters 

When  the  Grass  shall  cover  me    . 

Again 

A  Strip  of  Blub 

By  the  Fireside 

Down  the  Slope 

The  two  Worlds 

Sunlight  akd  Starlight      .     .     .    . 
"I  will  abide  in  thine  House" 

Over  the  River      

Judge  not  

Friend  Sorrow 

The  Closing  Scene 

The  High  Tide   on  the   Coast  of 

Lincolnshire    

Seven  Times  Four 

Seven  Times  Seven 

Before  the  Eaik 

After  the  Rain 

Piscataqua  River 


A7me  C.  (Lynch)  Botta 
Lydia  H.  Sigourney 
William  H.  Ficrncss 
James  T.  Fields 
Henry  Howard  Browndl 
Bayard  Taylor  . 


S.  J.  Lippincott  (Gr 
Alexander  Smith 
Matthew  Arnold 


Robert  Lord  Lytton 
Anne  Whitney  . 
J.  H.  Perkins    . 
George  Macdonald 


Eliza  Sijroat  Turner 

Cliristina  Bossetti 
((  (( 

Dora  Greenwell . 

(C  (C 

Elizabeth  H.  Whittier 
<(  <( 

Unknown .... 
<( 

Lucy  Larcom     .    . 

Charlotte  P.  Hawes 
Unknown,  .  .  . 
Adeli7ie  D.  T.  Whitney 

<<  <e  (C 

Nancy  A.  W.  Priest    . 

Adelaide  A.  Procter     . 
((  (< 

Thomas  Buchanan  Bead 

Jean  Ingclow      ,     .     . 
((  a 

((  (( 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrieh 


Greenwood) 


XVIU  CONTENTS. 

The  Green  Gnome Robert  Buchanan 284 

The  Doorstep E.  C.  Stcdman 285 

Pan  in  Wall  Street '*         "         285 

A  Match Algernon  Cliarlcs  Swinburne     ,  286 

Never  again B.  I£.  Stoddard 287 

Landward '•         "         287 

November "          "         287 

At  Sea J.  T.  Trowbridge 287 

In  the  Defences £.  A.  Allen  {Florence  Percy) .     .  288 

Our  Heroes Edna  Dean  Proctor 389 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier George  H.  BoJcer 290 

The  House  in  the  Meadow     .     .     .  Louise  Clmndler  Moulton .     .     .  290 

The  Late  Spring "          "           "         ...  291 

In  June Nora  Perry 291 

After  the  Ball "       "       292 

The  Jester's  Sermon G.  W.  Thornbury 293 

Climbing Annie  Fields 294 

Coronation ITelen  Hunt 294 

The  Way  to  sing "        "           295 

The  Sea-Limits Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti ....  295 

A  Summer  Day Celia  Thaxter 295 

Submission "        "          296 

March William  Morris 297 

The  Crickets Harriet  McEwcn  Kimball     .     .  297 

All's  well "          "            "        ...  298 

The  Survivors Harriet  W.  Preston     ....  298 

In  the  Sea Hiram  Rich 298 

Concha Francis  Bret  Harte 299 

Dickens  in  Camp "          "      " 301 

The  Puritan  Lovers Annie  D.  Green  {Marian  Douglas)  302 

Before  the  Gate William  D.  Howells   ....  303 

My  old  Kentucky  Nurse    .     .     .     .     S.  3f.  B.  Piatt 303 

The  Old-fashioned  Choir    .    .    .     .    B.  F.  Taylor 304 

IVIazzini Laura  G.  Redden 304 

Unawares "            "        305 

A  Woman's  Love John  Hay 305 

On  the  Bridge  of  Sighs      ....  Elizabeth  Stuart  PMps    ...  306 

All  the  PtivERS "          "         "    .     .     .     .  306 

White  underneath Rebecca  S.  Palfrey 307 

Listening  for  God William  0.  Gannett    ....  307 

God  knoweth Unknown 307 

A  Song  of  Trust John  W.  ChadwicTc      ....  308 

Pre-existence Paul  H.  Haijne 309 

From  the  Woods "         " 309 


CONTENTS. 


XIX 


Ballad  of  the  Brides  of  Quaib.    .    .    . 

Spring  in  Carolina 

Tacking  Ship  off  Shore 

Hereafter      

Song .     .     .     . 

Azrael  

From  "Walker  in  Nicaragua"  .     .     .     . 

Sunrise  in  Venice 

Different  Points  of  View 

Birch  Stream 

Driving  Home  the  Cows 

Waiting 

The  Secret  of  Death 

Fate 

The  Petrified  Fern 

Unseen  

The  Quiet  Meeting 

Midwinter 

Definitions 

Keady    

A  Bird's  Ministry 

What  is  the  Use  ? 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Hymn  to  Christ 

The  Blue  and  the  Gray 

The  Statue 

Waiting 

In  the  Mist 

The  Morning  Street 

Dawn 

The  Sower 

The  Dance 

Come  to  me,  Dearest 

The  Music-Lesson  of  Confucius  .... 

Mine  Own 

Urvasi 

The  Fisherman's  Funeral 

On  recrossing  the  Rocky  Mountains  in 
Winter,  after  many  Years  .... 

July  Dawning 

The  Fisherman's  Summons 

Work 

Two  Moods 

Song  of  a  Fellow- Worker, 


Isa  Craig  Knox  .     .     . 
Henri/  Timrod   . 
Walter  F.  MitcUll .     . 
Harriet  Frescott  Spofford 


Williayn  Winter 
Joaquin  Miller  . 


Unknown.  .  .  . 
Anna  Boynton  Averill 
Kate  Futnam  Osgood 
Lizzie  G.  Farker  . 
Unknown  .... 
John  A.  Dorgan  . 
Mary  Bolles  Branch 
Unknown .... 
Ha.rriet  0.  Nelson  , 
W.  J.  Linto7i     ,     . 


Margaret  J.  Freston 

a  ti 

Erastus  W.  Ellsworth 
Unknown  .... 
Mrs.  Miles  .  .  . 
F.  M.  Finch .  .  . 
Unknoivn .... 
Joh7i  Burroughs 
Sarah  Woolsey  .  . 
John  James  Piatt  . 
Richard  W.  Gilder 

William  Bell  Scott 

Joseph  Brennan  .     . 

Charles  G.  Leland  . 
(<  << 

Helen  Barron  Bostwick 
Unknown .... 


Mary  N.  Frescott    . 
Arthur  G" Shaughncssy 


XX  CONTENTS. 

A  SoNO Mrs.  Knox 338 

A  Cycle C.  Brooke 339 

Italy.     A  Prophecy Archdeacon  Uare    .     .     .  339 

In  Memoriam Unknown 340 

The  Blackbird •    .    •    .    .  Frederick  Tennyson     .    .  340 


LIST  OF  ATJTHOBS. 


Page 
ADAMS,  JOHN  QTTTNCY. 

Bereaved  Mother,  To  a   .        .        .        .  137 

ADAMS,   SARAH  F. 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee         .        .        .  245 

ADDISON,  JOSEPH. 

Hvmn 47 

Paraphrase  of  Psalm  XXIII.       .        .         47 

ALDRICH,   THOMAS   BAILEY. 

After  the  Rain 283 

Before  the  Rain 283 

Piscataqua  River 283 

ALEXANDER,  C.   F. 

Burial  of  Moses,  The        .        .        .        .237 

ALEXANDER,  W. 

Up  Above 247 

ALLEN,  ELIZABETH  AKERS  (FLORENCE 
PERCY). 
In  the  Defences 288 

ALLINGHAM,  WILLLAM. 

Touchstone,  The 217 

ARNOLD,  MATTHEn^. 

Last  Word,  The 266 

Terrace  at  Berne,  The      .        .        ,  .265 

Urania 263 

AVERILL,  ANNA  BOYNTON. 

Birch  Stream 315 

AYTON,   SIR  ROBERT. 

Fair  and  Unworthy  .        .        .        .26 

BAILLIE,  JOANNA. 

The  Gowan  glitters  on  the  Sward  .  .  86 
BARBAULD,  ANNA  L. 

Death  of  the  Virtuous,  The         .        .         74 

Life 75 

Sabbath  of  the  Soul,  The  ...  74 
BARHAM,  RICHARD   H. 

Jackdawof  Rheims,  The         .        .        .150 

BARNARD,  LADY   ANNE. 

Auld  Robin  Gray 85 

BARTON,   BERNARD. 

Not  ours  the  Vows 144 

BAXTER,  RICHARD. 

Resignation 39 

BEATTIE,  JAMES. 

Hermit,  The 72 


Page 
BLAKE,  WILLIAM. 

Muses,  To  the 86 

Tiger,  The 85 

BLAMIRE,   SUSANNA. 

What  ails  this  Heart  o'  [nine  ?        .        .75 

BLOOMFIELD,   ROBERT. 

Soldier's  Return,  The      ....    87 

BOKER,   GEORGE  H. 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier 290 

BONAR,  IIORATIUS. 

Inner  Calm,  The 247 

Master's  Touch,  The  ...       247 

BOSTWICK,    HELEN   BARRON. 

Urvasi a34 

BOTTA,  ANNE   C.   (LYNCH). 

Love 259 

BOWRTNG,  SIR  .JOHN. 

From  the  Recesses 14G 

Hymn 146 

BRAINARD,  JOHN  G.  C. 

Epithalamium 1,56 

Fall  of  Niagara,  The        .         .         .        .155 

BRANCH,  MARY  BOLLES. 

Petrified  Fern,  The 318 

BRENNAN,  JOSEPH. 

Come  to  me.  Dearest        ....  330 

BROOKE,   C. 

Cycle,  A 339 

BROOKS,  MARIA. 

Marriage 154 

BROWNE,  FRANCES. 

Losses 184 

BROWNE,   Sm  THOMAS. 

Evening  Hymn 29 

BRO^VNE,   WILLIAM. 

Sirens'  Song,  The 25 

Song 25 

BROWNELL,  HENRY  HOWARD. 

Burial  of  the  Dane,  The  .        .        .        .261 

BRO^VNTNG,  ELIZABETH  BARRETT. 

Bertha  in  the  Lane      ....       191 

Cowper's  Grave 194 

Musical  Instrument,  A        .        .        .       193 
Sleep,  The 190 


XXll 

BROWNING,    ROBERT. 
Evelvu  Hope 
Ijost  Leader,  The     . 
Kabbi  Ben  Ezra  . 


LIST  OP  AUTHORS. 


BRYANT,  WILLIAM   CULLEN. 
Battle-Field,  The      . 
Burial  of  Love,  The     . 
Death  of  the  Flowers,  The 
Fringed  Gentian,  To  the 
Thanatopsis      .... 
"The  Rivulet,"  From . 
Waterfowl,  To  a       . 

BUCHANAN,  ROBERT. 
Green  Gnome,  The  . 

BURNS,  ROBERT. 

Bard's  Epitaph,  A       .        •        • 
Elegy  on  Captain  Matthew  Henderson 

Highland  Mary 

Mary  in  Heaven,  To         .        •        • 

Mary  Morison 

Of  a'  the  Airts  the  Wind  can  blaw  . 
Vision,  A 

BURBIDGE,  THOMAS. 

Eventide 


203 
207 
204 

,  189 

lyo 

.  188 
189 

.  187 
190 

.  187 


BURROUGHS,  JOHN. 

\\'aitiug 

BYRD,  WILLIAM. 

My  Mind  to  me  a  Kingdom  is 

BYROM,  JOHN. 
Careless  Content 


CAMPBELL,  THOMAS. 

Glenara 

Last  Man,  The 

Lord  UUin's  Daughter 

CANTERBURY,  DEAN  OF. 
Trust       .        .        •        • 


284 

83 

84 

82 
,    83 

82 
.    82 

83 

.  258 
.  327 


COLERIDGE,  SAMUEL  TAYLOR. 

Christiibel 

Hymn   before   Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of 
Chamouni 

COLLINS,   WILLIAM. 

Dirge  in  Cimbeline 5° 

Evening,  Ode  to "* 


110 

108 


109 


63 


CAREW,  LABT  ELIZABETH. 

Revenge  of  Injuries 

CAREW,   THOMAS. 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  CheeK 

CAREY,  ALICE. 

Her  Last  Poem    . 
Krumlev  .        .        •        • 
Sure  Witness,  The 

CAHEY,  PHEBE. 

Field  Preaching 

Nearer  Home 

Peace        .        .        •        • 


15 

51 

138 
138 
139 

179 

,    13 

.    25 


COOKE,   ROSE   TERRY. 
Iconoclast,  The 
"  It  is  more  blessed  "  . 

CORBETT,   BISHOP  RICHABD. 

Farewell  to  the  Fairies    . 

COWLEY,   ABRAHAM. 

Liberty        

Of  myself        .        .        •       • 

COWPER,  WILLIAM. 

My  Mother's  Picture,  Lines  to    . 
Mysteries  of  Providence  . 
Royal  George,  Loss  of  the    . 

CRABBE,  GEORGE. 

Isaac  Ashford .        .        •        • 
CRAIK,  DINAH  MULOCK. 

Coming  Home 

Outward  Bound 

Too  Late      .         •        •        •        • 

CRANCH,  CHRISTOPHER  P. 

Knowing 

CRASHAW,  RICHARD. 

Wishes 

CROLY,  GEORGE. 

Cupid  grown  careful        •        • 

CUNNINGHAM,   ALLAN. 

A  wet  Sheet  and  a  Hewing  Sea    . 
She  's  gane  to  dwall  in  Heaven 
Thou  hast  sworn  by  thy  God      . 


258 
259 

2D 

41 

40 

69 

,    71 

69 

.    80 


250 
250 


234 

29 

91 

144 
145 
145 


255 
254 
255 


256 
256 
257 


DANA,  RICHARD  H. 

Island,  The      .... 
Pirate,  The  .         .         .        •         • 
Spectre  Horse,  The . 

DANIEL,   SAMUEL. 

From  an  Epistle  to  the  Countess  of  ^^um- 
berland         ...••• 

DAVIES,   SIR  JOHN.  ., 

Soul,  The 

DAVY     SIR   HUMPHRY. 

Written  after  Recovery  from  aDangerous 


185 
185 
18G 


14 


CHADWICK,  JOHN  W. 

Song  of  Trust,  A      .        .        •        • 

CHANNING,   WILLIAM  E. 

Sleepy  Hollow 

CHATTERTON,  THOMAS. 

Minstrel's  Song  in  Ella,  The   . 

CLARKE,  JAMES  FREEMAN. 

Cana         ...••• 

CLOUGH,   ARTIHJR  HUGH. 

"  Bothie  of  Tober-Navuohch,"  From 
New  Sinai,  The        .         •         •         • 
Qua  (Hirsuin  Ventus    . 
Stream  of  Life,  The 


235 


246 


the  243 
.  242 

.  244 
.  243 


Illness 

DOBELL,   SYT)NEY. 
Keith  of  Ravelston  . 

DODDRIDGE,   PHILIP.  ,  ,, , 

Ye  golden  Lamps  of  Heaven,  fareweU     . 

DORGAN,  JOHN   A. 

Fate 

DRAKE,  JOSEPH  RODMAN. 

American  Flag,  The 


90 


257 


58 


318 


156 


DRUMMOND,   WILLIAM 

Lessons  of  Nature,  The   . 

DRYDEN,  JOHN. 

Character  ofa  Good  Parson    •        *        "    45 

Reason  •.,■.,,;        ipQ7  '         '         45 

Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  1687       •         •     »^ 
Under  Milton's  Picture       .        .        •        »" 


12 


46 


LIST   OF   AUTHORS. 


XXIU 


DUFFERTN,  LADY. 

Irish  Emirgant,  The        •        .        .        .163 

DYER,  JOHN. 

Grongar  Hill 64 

ELLIOTT,   EBENEZER. 

Corn-Law  Hymn 143 

Forest  Worship 142 

Ghost  at  Noou,  A 142 

ELLIOTT,   JANE. 

Lament  for  Flodden         .        .        .        .88 

ELLSWORTH,  ERASTUS  W. 

What  is  the  Use  ? 321 

ELWOOD,  THOMAS. 

Prayer      .......    39 

EMERSON,  RALPH  WALDO. 

Apology,  The 199 

Boston  Hvmn 201 

Each  and  AU 200 

Problem,  The 200 

Soul's  Prophecy,  The  .  .  .  .202 
Thine  Eyes  still  shone  ...  200 
To  Eva 199 

FABER,  FREDERIC  WILLIAM. 

The  Right  mu.st  win  ....  239 
The  Will  of  God 239 

FERGUSON,   SAMUEL. 

Forging  of  the  Anchor,  The    .        .        .  170 

FIELDS,  ANNIE. 

Climbing 294 

FIELDS,  JAMES  T. 

Wordsworth 260 

FINCH,   F.   M 

Blue  and  the  Gray,  The.        .        .        .326 

FURNESS,   WILLIAM  H. 

Eternal  Light 260 

GANNETT,   W^LLIAM   C. 

Listening  for  God     .....  307 

GARRISON,  WILLIAM   LLOYD. 

Sonnet 168 

GAY,  JOHN. 

The  Painter  who  pleased  Nobody  and 
Everybody 50 

GILDER,  RICHARD  W. 

Dawn 328 

The  Sower 329 

GLASSFORD,   JAMES. 

The  Dead  who  have  died  in  the  Lord     .    89 
GOLDSMITH,  OLIVER. 

"  The  Deserted  Village,"  From       .        .    65 

GORDON,  GEORGE  (LORD  BYRON). 

Destruction  of  Sennacherib,  The  .  125 
Immortal  Mind,  The  ....  126 
Lake  of  Geneva,  The   ....       126 

Mont  Blanc 126 

She  walks  in  Beauty  ....       125 

GRANT,  SIR  ROBERT. 

0  Saviour  I  whose  mercy         .        .        .  178 

GR.\Y,  THOM.\S 

Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyard  60 
Ode  on  a  distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College  62 

GREEN,  ANNIE  D.  (MARIAN  DOUGLAS). 
Puritan  Lovers,  The        .        .        .        .302 


GREENWELL,  DORA. 

Sunflower,  The 272 

Vespers 273 

HALLECK,  FITZ-6REENE. 

Burns 165 

Red  Jacket,  On  a  Portrait  of      .        .       166 

HAMILTON,   WILLIAM. 

Braes  of  Yarrow,  The      .        .        .        .56 

HARE,   AKCHDEACON. 

Italy.     A  Prophecy         .        .        .        .339 

HARTE,  FRANCIS  BEET. 

Concha 299 

Dickens  in  Camp  ....       301 

HAWES,  CHARLOTTE  P. 

Down  the  Slope 276 

HAY,  JOHN. 

Woman's  Love,  A 305 

HAYNE,   PAUL  H. 

From  the  Woods 309 

Pre-existence   ......  309 

HEBER,  REGINALD. 

If  thou  wert  by  my  Side ....  143 

HEMANS,  FELICIA. 

Childe's  Destiny,  The      .        .        .        .153 
Kindred  Hearts 154 

HERBERT,  EDWARD  (EARL   OF   CHER- 
BURY). 
Celiuda 29 

HERBERT,   GEORGE. 

Flower,  The 31 

Rest 32 

Virtue 31 

HERRICK,   ROBERT. 

Blossoms,  To 31 

DaffodiLs,  To 30 

To  keep  a  True  Lent        .         .        .         .31 

HEYWOOD,   THOMAS. 

Good-Morrow 26 

Search  after  God 26 

HOGG,   JAMES. 

Rajiture  of  Kilraeny,  The    .        .         .       121 
^Vhen  Maggy  gangs  away        .         .         .  121 

HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL. 

Chambered  Nautilus,  The    ...  223 

Deacon's  Masterpiece,  The      .        .  .  221 

Dorothv  Q 219 

Living  Temple,  The          .        .        .  .219 

Robinson  of  Leydea    ....  221 

Under  the  Violets 223 

Voiceless,  The 220 

HOOD,   THOMAS. 

Morning  Meditations       ....  160 

Ruth 161 

Song .  161 

Song  of  the  Shirt,  The.        ...       160 

HOWARD,   HENRY,   EARL  OF   SURREY. 

No  Age  content  with  his  own  Estate       .      3 

HOWE,  JULIA  WARD. 

"  A  Tribute  to  a  Servant,"  From    .        .  235 
Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic      .         .       236 

HOWELL,  ELIZABETH   LLOYD. 

Milton's  Prayer  in  Blindness  .        .        .  237 


XXIV 

HO  WELLS,  ^riLLTAM  D. 

Before  the  Gate 

nOWITT,   MARY. 
Tibbie  In{;li3     . 


LIST   OF  AUTHORS. 


303 


181 


HOWITT,  WILLIAM. 

Departure  of  tlie  Swallow,  The 

HUME,   ALEXANDER. 

Summer's  Day,  A -i" 

HUNT,  HELEN 

Oorouation        .        .        .        • 
Way  to  sing,  The 

HUNT,   LEIGH. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  and  the  Angel 
Au  Augel  in  the  House  . 

INGELOW,  JEAN. 

High  Ti-le  on  the  Coast  of  Lmcolnshire, 

The 

Seven  Times  Four        .... 
Seven  Times  Seven .        .        •        •        • 

JOHNSON,   SAMUEL. 

Death  of  Dr.  Levett,  On  the    . 

JONSON,  BEN. 

Epitaph  on  Elizabeth  L.  H.         .        • 

How  near  to  Good  is  what  is  Fair. . 

Noble  Nature,  The       . 

On  Lucy,  Countess  of  Bedford 

Song  of  Hesperus         .... 

Sweet  Neglect,  The 

KEATS,  JOHN. 

Saint  Agues,  The  Eve  of . 

KEBLE,  JOHN. 

Inward  Music 

Morning 

KEMBLE,  FRANCES   ANNE. 

Faith 

KEN,    THOMAS. 

Morning  Hymn        .        .        •        • 

KIMBALL,  HARRIET  McEWEN. 

All 's  Well 

Crickets,  The 


182 


294 
293 


144 
144 


129 


LAMB,   CHAHLES. 

Hester 

Housekeeper,  The    . 

Old  Familiar  Faces,  The      . 

LANDON,  LETITIA   E. 
Death  and  the  Youth  . 
Shepherd-Boy,  The . 

LANDOR,  WALTER  SAVAGE. 
Lament    .... 


LANGHORNE,  JOHN. 
Dead,  The 

LARCOM,   LUCY. 
By  the  Fireside    . 
Strip  of  Blue,  A 


LEGGETT,   WILLIAM. 
Love  and  Friendship 

LELAND,  CHARLES   G. 

Mine  Own 

The  Music-Lesson  of  Confucius 

L'ESTRANGE,  SIR  ROGER. 
In  Prison         .... 


178 
177 


175 


46 


298 
297 


LEWES  MRS.   (GEORGE  ELIOT). 
O  may  I  join  the  Choir  invisible ! 

LEYDEN,  JOHN. 

Ode  to  an  Indian  Gold  Coin    . 

LINTON,  W.  J. 

Definitions 

Midwinter 

LIPPINCOTT,  SARA  J.  (GRACE  GREEN 
WOOD). 
Poet  of  To-day,  The 

LOGAN,   JOHN. 

Cuckoo,  To  the       .... 
Yarrow  Stream    .        .        •        •        • 


120 

.  120 
120 

254 
.  253 

.  137 

.    73 

275 
.  274 

.  165 

333 

.  331 

.    39 

.  248 

.    90 

320 
.  320 

263 


KING,  HENRY.  „<, 

Elegy ^ 

Sic  Vita •*' 


KINGSLEY,  CHARLES. 
Myth,  A  . 
Sandsof  Dee,  The 
Three  Fishers,  The  . 


250 
249 
249 


93 


310 


KNOWLES,  HERBERT. 

Lines  written  in  Richmond  Churchyard, 
Yorkshire 

KNOX,  ISA   CRAIG. 

Brides  of  Quair,  The  Ballad  of  the  , 

KNOX,  MRS. 

Song, A    

KNOX,   WILLIAM. 

0,  why  should  the  Spirit  of  Mortal  be 
proud? 

LAIDLAW,  WILLIAM.  „ 

Lucy  '8  Flittin' ^°^ 


149 


LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  W. 
Hawthorne 
Maidenhood 
Paul  Kevere's  Ride  . 
Psalm  of  life,  A  . 
Resignation 
Santa  Filomena   . 

LONGFELLOW,   SAMUEL. 
Golden  Sunset,  The 

LOVELACE,   SIR  RICHARD. 
Althea,  To       .         .         • 
Lucasta,  To  .        .        . 

LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL. 
After  the  Burial 
Ambrose       .        .        •        • 
Commemoration  Ode 
Courtin',  The 
Heritage,  The  . 
New  England  Spring   . 

LOWELL,  MARIA   WinTE. 
Alpine  Sheep,  The  . 

LUNT,   GEORGE. 

Pilgrim  Song    . 
LYTTON,   EDWARD  LORD. 

Sabbath,  The  . 

LYTTON,  ROBERT   LORD. 

Artist,  The 


75 
75 

211 
209 
207 
209 
210 
211 

244 

30 
30 

.  227 

226 
.  228 

225 
.  224 

224 

.  229 
.  168 
.  174 


206 


LIST    OF    AUTHORS. 


XXV 


MACDOXALI),  GEORGE. 
Ilyuiu  for  the  Mother  . 
0  Lassie  ayont  the  Hill ! 


270 
270 


MACKAY,   CHARLES. 

Small  Beginnings 218 

Tubal  Cain 218 

MAHONY,  FRANCIS   (FATHER  PROUT). 
Bellsof  Shandon,  The     .        .        .        .171 

MARLOWE,   CHRISTOPHER. 

Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Lore,  The    .      4 

MARVELL,   ANDREW. 

Bermudas,  The 35 

Thoughts  in  a  Gardea    ....    34 

MASSEY,   GERALD. 

To-day  and  To-morrow   ....  212 

MERRICK,   JAMES. 

Chameleon,  The 64 

MICKLE,  WILLIAM  JULIUS. 

Mariner's  Wife,  The         .        ...    71 

MILES,   MRS. 

Hymn  to  Christ 325 

MILLER,  JOAQUIN. 

Sunrise  in  Venice         ....       314 
"  Walker  in  Nicaragua,"  From       .        .  313 

MILLER,  THOMAS. 

Evening  Song 177 

MILNES,  RICHARD    MONCKTON  (LORD 
HOUGHTON). 

Brookside,  The 180 

Men  of  Old,  The 180 

Palm  and  the  Pine,  The  .        .        .181 

MILTON,  JOHN. 

Hymn  on  the  Nativity    .        ,        .        .35 
Sonnets 38 


MITCItELL,  WALTER  F. 

Tacking  Ship  off  Shore    . 

MONTGOMERY,  JAMES. 
Common  Lot,  The  . 
Forever  with  the  Lord 
Prayer      .... 

MONTROSE,   MARQUIS   OF. 
I  '11  never  love  thee  more 


311 

135 
135 
136 


.    28 


MOORE,  THOMAS. 

Fly  to  the  Desert     .... 
Mid  Hour  of  Night,  The      . 
O  Thou  who  dry'st  the  Mourner's  Tear . 
Vale  of  Avoca,  The       .... 
Thou  art,  0  God!    .... 

MORRIS,   WILLIAM. 
March      ... 


MOTHERWELL,  WILLIAM. 

Jeanie  Morrison 
MOULTON,  LOUISE  CHANDLER. 

House  in  the  Meadow,  The 

Late  Spring,  The 

MUHLENBERG,  W.   A. 

I  would  not  live  alway     . 

NAIRN,  LADY  CAROLINE. 

Land  o'  the  Leal,  The     .        . 

NASH,  THOMAS. 

Contentment  .... 


123 
124 
124 
124 
.  124 

.  297 

.  159 

.  290 
291 

.  162 

.    86 

.    12 


NEAL,  JOHN. 

Ambition  .        ■ 

NELSON,   HARRIET  0. 
Quiet  Meeting,  The 

NICOLL,   ROBERT. 
We  are  Brethren  a' . 


NORTON,   ANDREWS. 

After  a  Summer  Shower . 

NORTON,   CAROLINE  ELIZABETH. 
Bingen  on  the  Rhine        . 

OSGOOD,  FRANCES  S. 

Labor       ..... 

OSGOOD,  KATE  PUTNAM. 

Driving  Home  the  Cows  .        . 

O'SHAUGHNESSY,   ARTHUR. 
Song  of  a  Fellow- Worker 

PALFREY,  REBECCA   S. 

White  Underneath  .        .        .        . 

PARKER,  LIZZIE  G. 

Waiting 


PARKER,   THEODORE. 

The  \V'ay,  the  Truth,  and  the  Life  , 

PARSONS,   THOMAS  W. 

Campanile  de  Pisa  .         .        .        . 
On  a  Bust  of  Dante      . 

PATMORE,   COVENTRY. 

Chase,  The 

Lover,  The 

Woman 


.  168 
.  319 
.  184 
.  147 
.  173 
.  175 
.  31G 
.  337 
.307 
.  316 
.  239 


PAYNE,   JOHN  HOWARD. 

Sweet  Home     .        .        , 
PEABODY,   W.    B.   0. 

Hymn  of  Nature 

PERCIVAL,  JAMES  G. 

May 

Seneca  Lake,  To  .        . 


230 
23L 

253 
253 
252 

153 

162 


155 
155 


PERCY,   THOMAS. 

Friar  of  Orders  Gray,  The 
PERKINS,  J.   H. 

Upright  Sou],  The   . 
PERRY,   NORA. 

After  the  Ball      .        , 

In  June    .... 


.    67 
.  269 


292 
291 


PHELPS,  ELIZABETH  STUART. 

Ail  the  Rivers       .         . 
On  the  Bridge  of  Sighs    . 

PIATT,   JOHN   JAMES. 

The  Morning  Street        .        . 
PIATT,   S.   M.   B. 

My  Old  Kentucky  Nurse 

PIERPONT,   JOHN. 

Congress,  To         .        ,        . 
Passing  Away  .... 

PINKNEY,   EDWARD  COATE. 
Health,  A  .         .         .        . 


306 
306 


.  328 
.  303 


158 
157 


POE,   EDGAR  A. 
Bells,  The 

POPE,   ALEXANDER. 
Happiness    . 
Universal  Prayer,  The 


.  165 
.  202 


48 
48 


XXVI 


LIST    OF    AUTHORS. 


PBAED,  WTNTHROP  MACKWORTH. 

Belle  of  the  Ball,  The      . 

PRESCOTT,  MARY  N. 

Two  Moods 

Work 


SCUDDER,  ELIZA. 
163  Loveof  God,  The 

SEARS,  E.  H. 

Christmas  Hymn 


PRESTON,   HARRIET  W. 
Survivors,  The 

PRESTON,  MARGARET  J. 
Ready  .  .  .  . 
Bird's  Ministry,  A 

PRIEST,  NANCY  A.   W. 
Over  the  River 

PROCTER,   ADELAIDE  A. 
Friend  Sorrow 
Judge  Not 


337 

298 


321 
334 


SEWALL,   HARRIET  WINSLOW. 

Why  thus  longing  ?  . 

SHAKESPEARE,  WILLIAM. 

Songs 

Sonnets       .... 


277 


278 
278 


PROCTER,    BRYAN    WALLER    (BARRY 
CORNWALL). 
Petition  to  Time,  A  .        .        .        • 

Prayer  in  Sickness,  A  .        . 

PROCTOR,  EDNA  DEAN. 

Our  Heroes      .... 


289 


RALEIGH,   SIR  WALTER. 
Nymph's  Reply,  The     . 
pilgrim.  The 
Soul's  Errand,  The 

RAMSAY,   ALLAN. 

Song 


READ,  THOMAS  BUCHANAN. 

Closing  Scene,  The  . 

REDDEN,  LAURA  C. 

Mazzini     .        .        .        • 
Unawares     .        .        •        • 


49 
279 


RICH,  HIRAM. 

In  the  Sea 

RIDDELL,  HENRY  SCOTT. 

Our  Mary         .        .        • 


304 
305 


298 
169 


SHELLEY,   PERCY  BYSSHB. 

One  Word  is  too  often  profaned  . 

Skylark,  To  a 

Stanzas  written  in  Dejection  near  Naples 

SHENSTONE,  WILLIAM. 

Schoolmistress,  The         .        .        .        . 

SHERIDAN,   RICHARD  BRINSLEY. 

Had  I  a  Heart  for  Falsehood  framed 

SHIRLEY,   JAMES 

Death  the  Leveller 

SIDNEY,   SIR  PHILIP. 

Sonnets 

SIGOURNEY,  LYDIA  H. 

Indian  Names 

SMITH,   ALEXANDER. 

Lady  Barbara 

SMITH,   HORACE. 

Egyptian  Mummy,  Address  to  an 
Hymn  to  the  Flowers      .        .        .        • 

SOUTHEY,   CAROLINE  BOWLES. 

Mariner's  Hymn 


245 
238 

251 

.    16 
17 

128 

.  127 

127 

59 

79 

28 

6 

260 

264 


ROGERS,  SAMUEL. 

Italian  Song °} 


Wish,  A 


81 


ROSSETTI,   DANTE  GABRIEL. 

Sea-Limits,  The        .        .        .        •        -295 

ROSSETTI,   CHRISTINA. 

After  Death 2(^2 

Weary ^i^ 

ROYDON,   MATTHEW. 

Lament  for  Astrophel  (Sir  Philip  Sidney)     7 

SAXE,  JOHN   6. 

Sleep  and  Death  .... 
Wishing 


SCOTT,   SIR  WALTER. 

Christmas-Time       .        .        .        . 

Coronach 

Hebrew  Maid,  Hymn  of  the    . 
Imprisoned  Huntsman,  Lay  of  the 

Serenade,  A 

Song 

Trosachs,  The 

Young  Lochinvar 

SCOTT,   WILLIAM   BELL. 

Dance,  The 


232 
232 

107 
106 
107 
105 

,  105 
105 

.  105 
104 


SOUTHEY,   ROBERT. 
Brough  Bells    . 
Inchcape  Rock,  The    . 
Stanzas    . 

SOUTHWELL,  ROBERT. 
Content  and  Rich    . 


SPENCER,  WILLIAM   R. 

Lady  Anne  Hamilton,  To  the 

SPENSER,  EDMUND. 

Angelic  Ministry      . 

Bower  of  Bliss,  The     . 

"  The  Epithalamium,"  From. 

House  of  Riches,  The  . 

True  Woman,  The  . 

Una  and  the  Lion 

SPOFFORD,  HARRIET   PRESCOTT. 

Hereafter 

Song 


141 

140 


148 

118 
117 
117 

,  10 

,  89 


329 


SPRAGUE,   CHARLES. 
Family  Meeting,  The 

STEDMAN,  F.    C. 

Doorstep,  The  . 
Pan  in  Wall  Street 

STERLING,  JOHN. 
Hymn 


STERNHOLD,   THOMAS. 

Majesty  of  God 

STODDARD,   LAVTNIA. 
The  Soul's  Defiance 


312 
313 

109 

285 
285 

,176 

3 

.  148 


LIST   OF  AUTHORS. 


XXVll 


STODDARD,  R.  H. 

Landward    ......       287 

Never  Again     ......  287 

November 287 

STREET,   ALFRED  B. 

Settler,  The 234 

STRODE,   WILLL^M. 

Music 26 

STOWE,    HARRIET   BEECIIER. 

Other  World,  The 248 

SWINBURNE,  ALGERNON  CHARLES. 

Match,  A 286 

TANNAIIILL,  ROBERT. 

Braes  o'  Balquhither,  The       .         .         .88 
Midges  dance  aboon  the  Burn,  The     .       88 

TAYLOR,  BAYARD. 

Mountains,  The 262 

Oriental  Idvl,  An 262 

Song  of  the  Camp,  The        .        .        .       263 
Voyagers,  The 262 

TAYLOR,   B.   F. 

Old-fashioned  Choir,  The         .        .        .304 

TENNYSON,  ALFRED. 

"  Break,  break,  break! "     .        .        .       196 

Bugle  Song 199 

Doubt 197 

Garden  Song 198 

Larger  Hope,  The        ....       197 

Mariana 195 

Memory 196 

TENNYSON,   FREDERICK. 

Blackbird,  The 340 

THACKERAY,  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE. 

At  the  Church  Gate        .        .        .        .195 

THAXTER,   CELIA. 

Submission 296 

Summer  Day,  A 295 

THOMSON,   JAMES. 

"  The  Castle  of  Indolence,"  From  .        .    51 
Hymn,  A 52 

THOREAU,   H.   D. 

Inspiration 236 

THORNBURY,   G.   W. 

Jester's  Sermon,  The  ....  293 
THR.ALE,   MRS. 

Three  Warnings,  The  .  .  .  .73 
TIMROD,  HENRY. 

Spring  in  Carolina 311 

TOPLADY,   AUGUSTUS  M. 

Love  divine,  all  Love  excelling        .        .    58 

TRENCH,   RICHARD  CHENEVIX. 

Kingdom  of  God,  The      .        .        .        .241 

TROWBRIDGE,  J.   T. 

At  Sea 287 

TURNER,  ELIZA   SPROAT. 

Angel's  Visit,  An 271 

UNKNOWN. 

Abraham  Lincoln 324 

Again  .......       274 

Barring  o'  the  Door,  The        .        .        .    24 
Begone  dull  Care !        ....        20 


UNKNOWN. 

Boatie  rows,  The 

Bonnie  George  Campbell 

Different  Points  of  View  . 

Edom  o'  Gordon 

Fisherman's  Funeral,  The 

Fisherman's  Summons,  The 

Glenlogie  .        . 

God  knoweth 

In  Memoriam  . 

John  Davidson     . 

July  dawning  . 

Lady  Mary  Ann   . 

Love  will  find  out  the  Way 

May-Day  Song 

On  recrossiug  the  Rocky  Mountains 

Winter,  after  many  Years    . 
Quiet  from  God    . 
Robin  Goodfellow    . 
Secret  of  Death,  The  . 
Statue,  The      . 
Summer  Days      .        . 
Take  thy  auld  Cloak  about  thee 
There  wag  Silence  in  Heaven 
Two  Worlds,  The     . 
Unseen         .... 
Until  Death     .... 
Waly,  waly,  but  Love  be  bonny 
When  the  Grass  shall  cover  m« 

VAUGIIAN,  HENRY. 

Bird,  The         .... 
They  are  all  gone 

VAUX,   LORD   THOMAS. 

Thought         .... 


VERY,  JONES. 

Painted  Columbine,  To  the 
Present  Heaven,  The 

WALLER,   EDMUND. 
Old  Age  and  Death . 


WARING,  ANNA   L. 

My  Times  are  in  Thy  Hand 

WASSON,  DAVID  A. 

All 's  Well    .        .        .        . 
Royalty     .... 
Seen  and  Unseen . 


WATTS,  ISAAC. 

Heavenly  Land,  The 

WEBSTER,  DANIEL. 

Memory  of  the  Heart,  The 

WESLEY,   CHARLES. 

Jesus,  Lover  of  my  Soul . 

WHITE,  HENRY  KIRKE. 

Early  Primrose,  To  an 
Herb  Rosemary,  To  the  . 
Star  of  Bethlehem,  The 

WHITE,   JOSEPH   BLANCO. 

Night  and  Death 


WHITMAN,  SARAH  HELEN. 
A  Still  Day  in  Autumn    . 

WHITNEY,   ADELINE  D.  T. 

"  I  will  abide  in  thine  House 
I         Sunlight  and  Starlight    . 


77 

76 
314 

22 
3.^4 
336 

78 
807 
340 

78 
335 

19 
20 

335 
244 

21 
317 
326 
183 

24 
136 
276 
318 
251 

76 
273 


VERE,   AUBREY  DE. 

Sisters,  The 254 


176 
176 

40 

246 

241 

241 
240 

57 

156 

58 

92 
92 
93 


•233 

277 

.  277 


XXVIU 


LIST  OF  AUTHOES. 


WHITNEY,   ANNE. 

Bertha 268 

WUITTIER,   ELIZABETH  H. 

Charity     .......  273 

Muetiug  Waters,  The  ....       273 

WHITTIER,  JOHN   G. 

EveolElectiou.The    ....       216 
Grave  by  the  Lake,  The  ....  212 

lu  School-Days 215 

Laus  Deo  ! 216 

My  Birthday 214 

The  Vani.shers 215 

WILDE,   RICHARD  HENRY. 

My  Life  is  like  the  Summer  Rose    .        .  152 

WILLIAMS,  HELEN   aiARIA. 

WhiLst  Thee  I  seek 136 

WILLIS,   NATHANIEL  PARKER. 

"Melanie,"  From        ....       172 
Unseen  Spirits 172 

WILSON,    JOHN. 

Evening  Cloud,  The         ....  146 

WINTER,   WILLIAM. 

Azrael 313 

WITHER,   GEORGE. 

Companionship  of  the  Muse    .        .        .34 
for  one  that  hears  himself  much  praised   33 


WOLFE,   CHARLES. 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,  The       .        .  152 

WOODWORTH,   SAMUEL. 

Bucket,  The 147 

WOOLSEY,   SARAH. 

In  the  Mist 327 

WORDSWORTH,   WILUAM. 

Cuckoo,  To  the 100 

Daffodils,  The 99 

Intimations  of  Immortality         .        .        97 

Memory,  A 100 

Ode  to  Duty 102 

Peele  Castle  in  a  Storm,  On  a  Picture  of  101 
River  Duddon,  To  the  ...  103 
She  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight        .        .  100 

Sleep,  To •      103 

World,  The 103 

Yarrovf  Unvisited        ....       101 

WOTTON,   SIR  HENRY. 

Good  Man,  The 13 

To  his  Mistress,  the  Queen  of  Bohemia       13 

WYATT,   SIR  THOMAS. 

A  Description  of  such  a  one  as  he  would 

love 4 

Pleasure  mixed  with  Pain  ...  4 


FROM  SHAKESPEARE  TO  MILTON. 


From  Shakespeare  to  Milton. 


LORD  THOMAS  VAUX. 

[ISIO-ISS7-] 
THOUGHT. 

When  all  is  done  and  said, 

In  the  end  this  shall  you  find : 
He  most  of  all  doth  bathe  in  bliss 

That  hath  a  (|uiet  mind  ; 
And,  clear  from  worldly  cares, 

To  deem  can  be  content 
The  sweetest  time  in  all  his  life 

In  thinking  to  be  spent. 

The  body  subject  is 

To  tickle  Fortune's  power, 
And  to  a  million  of  mishaps 

Is  casual  every  hour  ; 
And  Death  in  time  doth  change 

It  to  a  clod  of  clay  ; 
When  as  the  mind,  wliich  is  divine, 

liuns  never  to  decay. 

Companion  none  is  like 

Unto  the  mind  alone, 
For  many  have  been  harmed  by  speech,  — 

Through  thinking,  few,  or  none. 
Fear  oftentimes  restraineth  words, 

But  makes  not  thoughts  to  cease ; 
And  he  speaks  best,  that  hath  the  skill 

When  for  to  hold  his  peace. 

Our  wealth  leaves  us  at  death. 

Our  kinsmen  at  the  grave  : 
But  virtues  of  the  mind  unto 

The  heavens  with  us  we  have  ; 
Wherefore,  for  virtue's  sake, 

I  can  be  well  content 
The  sweetest  time  of  all  my  life 

To  deem  in  thinking  spent. 


THOMAS  STERNHOLD. 

[Died  1549.] 
MAJESTY  OF  GOD. 

The  Lord  descended  from  above, 
And  bowed  the  heavens  most  high, 

And  underneath  his  feet  he  cast 
The  darkness  of  the  sky. 

On  cherubim  and  seraphim 

Full  royally  he  rode, 
And  on  the  wings  of  mighty  winds 

Came  flying  all  abroad. 

He  sat  serene  upon  the  floods, 

Their  fury  to  restrain  ; 
And  he,  as  sovereign  Lord  and  King, 

For  evermore  shall  reign. 


HENRY  HOWARD,  EARL  OF 
SURREY. 

[1515-1547-] 

NO    AGE    CONTENT    WITH    HIS    OWN 
ESTATE. 

Laid  in  my  quiet  bed. 

In  study  as  I  were, 
I  saw  within  my  troubled  head 

A  heap  of  thoughts  ajjpear. 

And  every  thought  did  show 

So  lively  in  mine  eyes. 
That  now  I  sighed,  and  then  I  smiled. 

As  cause  of  thoughts  did  rise. 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


I  saw  the  little  boy, 

In  thought  how  oft  that  he 
Did  wish  of  God,  to  scape  the  rod, 

A  tall  young  man  to  be. 

The  young  man  eke  that  feels 
His  bones  with  pains  opprest, 

How  he  would  be  a  rich  old  man, 
To  live  and  lie  at  rest : 

The  rich  old  man  that  sees 

His  end  draw  on  so  sore, 
How  he  would  be  a  boy  again, 

To  live  so  much  the  more. 

Whereat  full  oft  I  smiled. 

To  see  how  all  these  three, 
From  boy  to  man,  from  man  to  boy. 

Would  chop  and  change  degree  : 

And  musing  thus,  I  think, 

The  case  is  very  strange. 
That  man  from  wealth,  to  live  in  woe, 

Doth  ever  seek  to  change. 

Thus  thoughtful  as  I  lay, 

I  saw  my  withered  skin. 
How  it  doth  show  my  dented  thews, 

The  Hesh  was  worn  so  thin ; 

And  eke  my  toothless  chaps. 

The  gates  of  my  right  way. 
That  opes  and  shuts  as  I  do  speak, 

Do  thus  unto  me  say  ; 

"The  white  and  hoarish  hairs. 

The  messengers  of  age, 
That  show,  like  lines  of  true  belief, 

That  this  life  dotli  assuage ; 

"  Bid  thee  lay  hand,  and  feel 

Them  hanging  on  my  chin. 
The  wliich  do  write  two  ages  past, 

The  third  now  coming  in. 

*'  Hang  up,  therefore,  the  bit 
Of  thy  young  wanton  time; 

And  thou  that  therein  beaten  art, 
The  happiest  life  deiine." 

Whereat  I  sighed,  and  said, 

"  Farewell  my  wonted  joy  ! 
Truss  up  thy  pack,  and  trudge  from  me. 

To  every  little  boy ; 

"And  tell  them  thus  from  me. 

Their  time  most  liap]iy  is, 
If  to  tlieir  time  tlicy  rcasini  had, 

To  know  the  truth  of  this." 


SIR  TUOMAS  WYATT. 

[1503-1542-] 

PLEASURE  JVnXED  WITH  PAIN. 

Venomous  thorns  that  are  so  sharp  and 

keen 
Bear   flowers,  we  see,  full  fresh  and 

fair  of  hue : 
Poison  is  also  put  in  medicine. 

And  unto  man   his   health   doth   oft 

renew. 
The  fire  that  all  things  eke  consumeth 

clean. 
May  hurt  and  heal :  then  if  that  this 

be  true, 
I  trust  some  time  my  harm  may  be  my 

health, 
Since   every   woe   is  joined  with   some 

wealth. 


A  DESCRIPTION  OF   SUCH  A  ONE  AS 
HE  WOULD  LOVE. 

A  FACE  that  should  content  me  wondrous 

well. 
Should  not  be  fair,  but  lovely  to  behold 
With  gladsome  cheer,  all  grief  for  to  ex- 

pel; 
With  sober  looks   so  M'ould   I   that  it 

should 
Speak   without   words,    such   words    as 

none  can  tell ; 
The  tress  also  should  be  of  crisped  gold. 
With    wit    and  tliese,    might   chance  I 

might  be  tied. 
And  knit  again  with  knot  that  should 

not  slide. 


CnRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 

[1564-1593.] 

THE  PASSIONATE  SHEPHERD  TO  HIS 
LOVE. 

Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  all  tin;  pleasures  prove. 
That  valleys,  groves,  and  hills  and  fields, 
Wood  or  stee[)y  mountain  yields. 

And  we  will  sit  U])oii  tlie  rocks. 
Seeing  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks 


SIR   WALTER   RALEIGH. 


V>y  shallow  rivers,  to  wliose  falls 
JleloJious  birds  slug  madrigals. 

And  I  will  make  thee  beds  of  roses. 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies ; 
A  cap  of  flowers  and  a  kirtle, 
Embroidered  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle ; 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool, 
AVliich  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull ; 
]''air  lined  slippers  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold ; 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  bnds. 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs  : 
Anil  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 

The   shepherd   swains   shall  dance  and 

sing, 
For  thy  delight,  each  May-morning : 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 


SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH. 

[1552-1618.] 

THE  NYMPH'S  REPLY. 

If  all  the  world  and  love  were  young, 
And  truth  in  every  shepherd's  tongue. 
These  pr(^tty  pleasures  might  me  move 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

Time  drives  the  flocks  from  field  to  fold, 
AVlien  rivers  rage  and  rocks  grow  cold; 
And  Philomel  becometh  dumb. 
The  rest  complain  of  cares  to  come. 

Tlie  flowers  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  winter  reckoning  yields ; 
A  honey  tongue,  a  heart  of  gall, 
Is  fancy's  spring,  but  soitow's  fall. 

Thy  gowns,  thy  shoes,  thy  beds  of  roses, 
Tliy  cap,  thy  kirtle,  and  thy  posies. 
Soon  break,  soon  wither,  soon  foi'gotten. 
In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten. 

Thy  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  biids, 
Thy  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs,  — 
All  these  in  me  no  means  can  move 
To  come  to  thee  and  be  thy  love. 


But  could  youth  last,  and  love  still  breed, 
Had  joys  no  date,  nor  age  no  need. 
Then  these  delights  my  mind  might  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love. 


THE  PILGRIM. 

Give  me  my  scallop-shell  of  quiet, 
My  staff  of  faith  to  walk  upon ; 
My  scrip  of  joy,  immortal  diet; 
My  bottle  of  salvation  ; 
IVIy  gown  of  glory  (hope's  true  gauge), 
And  thus  I  '11  take  my  pilgrimage. 
]')Iooil  must  be  my  body's  'balmer, 
Whilst  my  soul,  a  rpuct  Palmer, 
Travelleth  towards  the  land  of  Heaven ; 
No  other  balm  will  there  be  given. 
Over  the  silver  mountains, 
Where  spring  tlie  nectar  fountains, 
Tliere  will  I  kiss  the  bowl  of  bliss, 
And  drink  mine  everlasting  fill 
Upon  every  milken  hill ; 
My  soul  will  be  a-dry  before. 
But  after,  it  will  thirst  no  more. 
Then,  by  that  happy,  blissful  day, 

I\Iore  peaceful  pilgrims  I  shall  see, 
That  have  cast  otf  their  rags  of  clay. 

And  walk  apparelled  fresh,  like  me. 


THE  SOUL'S  ERRAND. 

Go,  soul,  the  body's  guest. 

Upon  a  thankless  errand  ! 
Fear  not  to  touch  the  best. 

The  truth  shall  be  thy  warrant : 
Go,  since  I  needs  must  die, 
And  give  the  world  the  lie, 

Go,  tell  the  court  it  glows. 

And  shines  like  rotten  wood ; 
Go,  tell  tlie  church  it  shows 

What 's  good,  and  doth  no  good  : 
If  church  and  court  reply, 
Then  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  potentates  they  live 

Acting  by  others'  actions ; 
Not  loved  unless  they  give. 

Not  strong  but  by  their  factions : 
If  potentates  reply. 
Give  potentates  the  lie. 

Tell  men  of  high  condition 
That  rule  affairs  of  state, 


SONGS   OF   TIIEEE   CENTURIES. 


Their  purpose  is  ambition, 
Their  practice  only  hate  ; 
And  if  they  once  reply, 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  them  that  brave  it  most, 

They  beg  for  more  by  spending, 
"Who  in  their  greatest  cost, 

Seek  nothing  but  commending : 
And  if  they  make  reply. 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  zeal  it  lacks  devotion. 

Tell  love  it  is  but  lust, 
Tell  time  it  is  but  motion, 
Tell  flesh  it  is  but  dust : 
And  wish  them  not  reply, 
For  thou  must  give  the  lie. 

Tell  age  it  daily  wasteth, 

Tell  honor  how  it  alters. 
Tell  beauty  how  she  blasteth, 
Tell  favor  how  she  falters  : 
And  as  they  shall  reply, 
Give  every  one  the  lie. 

Tell  wit  how  mnch  it  wrangles 
In  tickle  points  of  niceness; 
Tell  wisdom  she  entangles 
Herself  in  over-wiseness : 
And  when  they  do  rejily, 
Straight  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  physic  of  her  boldness, 
Tell  skill  it  is  pretension, 
Tell  charity  of  coldness. 
Tell  law  it  is  contention  : 
And  as  they  do  reply. 
So  give  them  still  the  lie. 

Tell  fortune  of  her  blindness, 

Tell  nature  of  decay. 
Tell  friendship  of  unkindness, 
Tell  justice  of  delay  : 
And  if  they  will  reply, 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  arts  they  have  no  soundness. 

But  vary  by  esteeming; 
Tell  schools  they  want  i)rofoundness, 
And  stand  too  much  on  seeming : 
If  arts  and  schools  reply, 
Give  arts  and  schools  the  lie. 

Tell  faith  it 's  fled  the  city  ; 
Tell  how  the  country  erreth ; 


Tell,  manhood  shakes  off  pity ; 
Tell,  virtue  least  preferretli : 
And  if  they  do  reply. 
Spare  not  to  give  the  lie. 

So  when  thou  hast,  as  I 

Commanded  thee,  done  blabbing, 
Although  to  give  the  lie 

Deserves  no  less  than  stabbing, 
Yet  stab  at  thee  who  will, 
No  stab  the  soul  can  kill. 


SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY. 

[1554-1586.] 

SONNETS. 

With  how  sad  steps,   0  Moon !  thou 

climb'st  the  skies, 
How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face  ! 
What  may  it  be,  that  even  in  heavenly 

place 
That  busy  Archer  his  sharp  arrows  tries  ? 
Sure,  if  that  long  with  love  acquainted 

eyes 
Can  judge  of  love,  thou  feel'st  a  lover's 

case; 
I  read  it  in  thy  looks,  thy  languished  grace 
To  me  that  feel  the  like  thy  state  descries. 
Then,  even  of  fellowship,  0  Moon,  tell  me, 
Is  constant  love  deemed  there  but  want 

of  wit? 
Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they  be  ? 
Do  they  above  love  to  be  loved,  and  yet 
Those  lovers  scorn  whom  that  love  doth 

possess  ? 
Do  they  call  virtue  there  ungratefulness  ? 


Come,  Sleep,  0  Sleep,  the  certain  knot 

of  peace. 
The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe, 
The  poor   man's  wealth,  the   jirisoner's 

release. 
The  indifferent  judge  between  the  high 

and  low. 
With  shield  of  proof  shield  me  from  out 

the  prease 
Of  those  fierce  darts,  Despair  at  me  doth 

throw ; 

0  make  in  nw,  those  civil  wars  to  cease ! 

1  will  good  tribute  pay,  if  thou  do  so. 


MATTHEW  ROYDON.  —  EDMUND   SPENSER. 


Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest 

bed; 
A  chamber  deaf  to  noise  and  blind  to 

light ; 
A  rosy  garland,  and  a  weary  head. 
And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  by  right, 
Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt  in 

me 
Livelier  than  elsewhere  Stella's  image  see. 


MATTHEW  ROTDON. 

LAMENT  FOR  ASTROPHEL  (SIR  PHILIP 
SIDNEY). 

You  knew,  —  who  knew  not  Astrophel  ? 

Tliat  I  should  live  to  say  I  knew, 
And  have  not  in  possession  still !  — 
Things  known  permit  me  to  renew. 
Of  him  you  know  his  merit  such 
I  cannot  say — you  hear — too  much. 

Within  these  woods  of  Arcady 

He  chief  delight  and  pleasure  took; 
And  on  tlie  mountain  Partheny, 
Upon  the  crystal  liquid  brook, 
The  muses  met  him  every  day,  — 
Taught  him  to  sing,  and  write,  and 
say. 

When  he  descended  down  the  mount 
His  personage  seemed  most  divine ; 
A  thousand  graces  one  might  count 
Upon  his  lovely,  cheerful  eyne. 

To  hear  him  speak,   and  see  him 

smile, 
You  were  in  Paradise  the  while. 

A  sweet,  attractive  kind  of  gi'ace ; 

A  full  assurance  given  by  looks ; 
Continual  comfort  in  a  face ; 

The  lineaments  of  gospel  books  : 
I  trow  that  countenance  cannot  lie 
Whose  thoughts  are  legible  in  the  eye. 

Above  all  others  this  is  he 

Who  erst  approved  in  his  song, 
That  love  and  lionor  might  agree, 
And  that  pure  love  will  do  no  wrong. 
Sweet  saints,  it  is  no  sin  or  blame 
To  love  a  man  of  virtuous  name. 

Did  never  love  so  sweetly  breathe 
In  any  mortal  breast  before  : 


Did  never  muse  inspire  beneath 
A  poet's  brain  with  finer  store. 

He  wrote  of  love  with  high  conceit 
And  beauty  reared  above  her  height. 


EDMUND  SPENSER. 

[ISS3-IS99-] 

ANGELIC  MINISTRY. 

And  is  there  care  in  Heaven?    And  is 

there  love 
In  heavenly  spirits  to  these  creatures  base, 
That  may  compassion  of  their  evils  move  ? 
There   is,  —  else   much  more   wretched 

were  the  case 
Of  men  than  beasts  :  but  0  the  exceed- 
ing grace 
Of  highest  God,  that  loves  his  creatures  so. 
And  all  his  works  with  mercy  doth  em- 
brace. 
That  blessed  angels  he  sends  to  and  fro. 
To  serve  to  wicked  man,  to  serve  his 
wicked  foe ! 

How  oft  do  they  their  silver  bowers  leave, 
To  come  to  succor  us  that  succor  want ! 
How  oft  do   they  with  golden  pinions 

cleave 
The  flitting  skies,  like  flpng  pursuivant, 
Against  foul  fiends  to  aid  us  militant ! 
They  for  us  fight,  they  watch  and  duly 

ward, 
And  their  bright  squadrons  round  about 

us  plant ; 
And  all  for  love  and  nothing  for  reward  ; 
0,  why  should   heavenly   God   to  men 

have  such  regard  ? 


THE  TRUE  WOMAN. 

TiiRTCE  happy  she  that  is  so  well  assured 
Unto  herself,  and  settled  so  in  heart, 
That  neither  will  for  better  be  allured, 
Ne  fears  to  worse  with  any  chance  to  stai-t. 
But  like  a  steady  ship  doth  strongly  i)art 
The  raging  waves,  and  keeps  her  course 

aright ; 
Ne  ought  for  tempest  doth  from  it  depart, 
Ne  ought  for  fairer  weather's  false  de- 

Hght. 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES, 


Such    self-assurance   need  not  fear  the 

spite 
Of  gmdyiiig  foes,  ne  favor  seek  of  friends ; 
But  in  the  stay  of  her  own  steadfast  might, 
Neither  to  one  herself  or  other  hends. 
ilost  happy  she  that  most  assured  doth 

rest, 
But  he  most  happy  who  such  one  loves 

best. 

FROM  THE  EPITHALAMIFM. 

Open  the  temple-gates  unto  my  love. 
Open  tliem  wide  that  she  may  enter  in, 
And  all  the  posts  adorn  as  doth  behove, 
And  all  the  pillars  deck  with  garlands 

trim. 
For  to  receive  this  saint  with  honor  due. 
That  Cometh  in  to  you. 
"With  trembling  steps  and  humble  rev- 
erence 
She  Cometh  in  before  the  Almighty's  view: 
Of  her,  ye  virgins  !  learn  obedience, 
When  so  ye  come  into  these  holy  places, 
To  liumble  your  proud  faces. 
Bring  her  up  to  the  high  altar,  that  she 

may 
The  sacred  ceremonies  there  partake, 
The  which  do  endless  matrimony  make ; 
A  nd  let  the  roaring  organs  loiully  play 
Tlie  praises  of  the  Lord,  in  lively  notes, 
Tlie  whiles  with  hollow  throats 
The  choristers  the  joyous  anthems  sing. 
That   all   the  woods   may   answer,    and 
their  echo  ring. 

Behold  whiles  she  before  the  altar  stands, 
Hearing  the  holy  priest  that  to  her  speaks, 
And  blesses  herwith  his  twohappy  hands, 
How  red  the  roses  Hush  iiji  in  her  cheeks  ! 
And  the  pure  snow,  with  goodly  vermeil 

stain, 
T,ike  crimson  dyed  in  grain. 
That  even  the  angels,  which  continually 
About  the  sacred  altar  do  remain. 
Forget  their  service,  and  about  her  fly. 
Oft  peeping  in  her  face,  that  seems  more 

fair 
The  more  they  on  it  stare ; 
But  her  sad  eyes,  still  fastened  on  the 

ground. 
Are  governed  with  goodlj^  modesty. 
That  suffers  not  one  look  to  glance  awry, 
"Which  may  let  in  a  little  thought  un- 
sound. 
Why  blusli  ye.  Love  !  to  give  to  me  your 
hand, 


The  pledge  of  all  your  band  ? 
Sing,  ye  sweet  angels !     Alleluia  sing. 
That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your 
echo  ring. 


UNA  AND  THE  LION. 

One  day,  nigh  weary  of  the  irksome  wa}', 
From  her  unhasty  beast  she  did  alight ; 
And  on  the  grass  her  dainty  limbs  did  lay 
In  secret  shadow,  far  from  all  men's  sight ; 
From  her  fair  head  her  fillet  she  undight. 
And  laid  her  stole  aside  :  her  angel's  face. 
As  the  great  eye  of  heaven,  sinned  bright, 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  a  sliady  ])lace ; 
Did  never  mortal  eye  behold  such  heav- 
enly grace. 

It  fortuned,  out  of  the  thickest  wood, 
A  ramping  lion  rushed  suddenly. 
Hunting  full  greedy  after  savage  blood; 
Soon  as  the  royal  virgin  he  did  spy. 
With  gaping  mouth  at  her  ran  greedily, 
To  have  at  once  devoured  her  tender  corse ; 
But  to  the  prey  when  as  he  drew  more 

nigh, 
His  bloody  rage  assuaged  with  remorse. 
And,  with  the  sight  amazed,  forgot  his 

furious  force. 

Instead  thereof  he  kissed  her  weary  feet, 
And  licked  her  lily  hands  with  fawning 

tongue, 
As  he  her  wronged  innocence  did  weet. 
0  how  can  beauty  master  the  most  strong. 
And  simple  truth  subdue  avenging  wi'ong! 
Whose  yielded  pride  and  proud  submis- 
sion. 
Still    dreading    death,    when    she    had 

marked  long. 
Her  heart  'gan  melt  in  great  compassion, 
And   drizzling   tears  did  shed  for  pure 
atfectiou. 

The  lion  would  not  leave  her  desolate. 
But  with  her  went  along,  as  a  strong 

guard 
Of  her  chaste  person,  and  a  faithful  mate 
Of  her  sadtroul)les,  and  misfortuneshard. 
Still,  when  she  slept,  he  kept  both  watch 

and  ward ; 
And,  when  she  waked,  he  waited  diligent, 
With  humlile  service  to  her  will  pre- 
pared : 
Fromher  faireyes  lietook  commandment, 
And  ever  by  her  looks  conceived  her  in- 
tent. 


EDMUND   SPENSER. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  RICHES. 

That  house's  form  within  was  nide  and 

strong, 
Like  an  huge  cave  hewn  out  of  rocky  clift, 
From    whose   rough    vault   the    ragged 

breaches  liung 
Embossed  with  massy  gold  of  glorious 

gift, 
And  with  rich  metal  loaded  every  rift, 
That  heavy  ruin  they  did  seem  to  threat ; 
And  over  them  Arachne  high  did  lift 
Her  cunning  web,  and  spread  her  subtle 

net. 
Enwrapped   in   foul   smoke  and  clouds 

more  black  than  jet. 

Both  roof,  and  floor,  and  walls,  were  all 
of  gold. 

But  overgrown  with  dust  and  old  de- 
cay, 

And  hid  in  darkness,  that  none  could 
behold 

The  hue  thereof:  for  view  of  cheerful 
day 

Did  never  in  that  house  itself  display, 

But  a  faint  shadow  of  uncertain  light ; 

Such  as  a  lainp  whose  life  does  fadeaway ; 

Or  as  the  Moon,  clothed  with  cloudy 
night. 

Does  show  to  him  that  walks  iu  fear  and 
sad  affright. 

In  all  that  room  was  nothing  to  be  seen 

But  huge  great  iron  chests,  and  coffers 
strong, 

All  barred  with  double  bends,  that  none 
could  ween 

Them  to  enforce  by  violence  or  wrong ; 

On  every  side  they  placed  were  along. 

But  all  the  ground  with  sculls  was  scat- 
tered 

And  dead  men's  bones,  which  round  about 
were  flung ; 

Whose  lives,  it  seemed,  whilome  there 
were  shed. 

And  their  vile  carcasses  now  left  unbuiied. 


THE  BOWER  OF  BLISS. 

There  the  most  dainty  paradise  on  ground 

Itself  doth  offer  to  his  sober  eye, 

In    which     all     pleasures     plenteously 

abound, 
And  none  does  others'  happiness  envy ; 


The  painted  flowers,  the  trees  upshoot- 
ing  high. 

The  dales  for  shade,  the  hills  for  breath- 
ing space. 

The  trembling  groves,  the  crystal  run- 
ning by ; 

And  that  which  all  fair  works  doth  most 
aggrace, 

The  art,  which  all  that  wrought,  ap- 
peared in  no  place. 

One  would  have  thought  (so  cunningly 
the  rude 

And  scorned  parts  were  mingled  with  the 
fine) 

That  nature  had  for  wantonness  ensued 

Art,  and  that  art  at  nature  did  re- 
pine ; 

So  striving  each  the  other  to  under- 
mine. 

Each  did  the  other's  work  more  beautify ; 

So  differing  both  in  wills,  agreed  in 
fine  : 

So  all  agreed  through  sweet  diversity, 

This  garden  to  adorn  with  all  variety. 

Eftsoons  they  heard  a  most  melodious 

sound, 
Of  all  that  might  delight  a  dainty  ear, 
Such  as  at   once   might   not  on   living 

ground. 
Save  in  this  paradise  be  heard  elsewhei-e  : 
Eight  hard  it  was  for  wight  which  did 

it  hear. 
To  read  what  manner  music  that  might 

be  : 
For  all  that  pleasing  is  to  living  ear. 
Was  there  consorted   in  one  harmony  ; 
Birds,  voices,   instruments,  winds,   wa- 
ters, all  agree. 

The  joyous  birds,  shrouded  in  cheerful 

shade. 
Their  notes  unto  the  voice  attempered 

sweet ; 
The  angelical  soft  trembling  voices  made 
To  the  instruments  divine  respondence 

meet ; 
The    silver  sounding  instruments    did 

meet 
With  the  base  murmur  of  the  water's 

fall: 
The  water's  fall  with  difference  discreet. 
Now  soft,  now  loud,  unto  the  wind  did 

call : 
The  gentle  warbling  wind  low  answered 

to  all. 


10 


SONGS   OF   TIIEEE   CENTURIES. 


\ 


EGBERT  SOUTHWELL. 

[1560-1595.] 

CONTENT  AND  RICH. 

I  DWELT,  in  grace's  courts,  _ 
Enriched  with  virtue's  rights  ; 

Faitli  guides  my  wit,  love  leads  my  will, 
Hope  all  my  mind  delights. 

In  lowly  vales  I  mount 

To  pleasure's  highest  pitch,  _ 
My  simple  dress  sure  honor  brings, 

My  poor  estate  is  rich. 

My  conscience  is  my  crown. 
Contented  thoughts  my  rest ; 

My  heart  is  happy  in  itself; 
My  bliss  is  in  my  breast. 

Enough,  I  reckon  wealth  ; 

A  mean,  the  surest  lot. 
That  lies  too  high  for  base  contempt, 

Too  low  for  envy's  shot. 

My  wishes  are  but  few, 

All  easy  to  fulfil ; 
I  make  the  limits  of  my  power 

The  bounds  unto  my  will. 

I  have  no  hopes  but  one, 

Which  is  of  heavenly  reign  : 
Effects  attained,  or  not  desired, 

All  lower  hopes  refrain. 

I  feel  no  care  of  coin, 

Well-doing  is  my  wealth  : 
My  mind  to  me  an  empire  is, 

While  grace  affordeth  health. 

I  clip  high-climbing  thoughts, 
The  wings  of  swelling  ])ride  : 

Their  fate  is  worst,  that  from  the  height 
Of  greater  honor  slide. 

Silk  sails  of  largest  size 

The  storm  doth  soonest  tear  : 

I  bear  so  low  and  small  a  sail 
As  freeth  me  from  fear. 

I  wrestle  not  with  rage 

While  fury's  Hame  doth  burn; 

It  is  in  vain  to  stoj)  the  stream 
Until  the  tide  doth  turn. 

But  when  the  flame  is  out. 
And  ebbing  wrath  doth  end, 


I  turn  a  late-enraged  foe 
Into  a  c^uiet  frieud ; 

And,  taught  with  often  proof, 

A  tempered  calm  I  find 
To  be  most  solace  to  itself, 

Best  cure  for  angry  mind. 

Spare  diet  is  my  fare, 

My  clothes  more  fit  than  fine  ; 
I  know  I  feed  and  clothe  a  foe 

That,  pampered,  would  repine. 

I  envy  not  their  hap 

Whom  favor  doth  advance : 

I  take  no  pleasure  in  their  pain 
That  have  less  happy  chance. 

To  rise  by  others'  fall 

I  deem  a  losing  gain : 
All  states  with  others'  ruins  built 

To  ruins  run  amain. 

No  change  of  fortune's  calms 
Can  cast  my  comforts  down  : 

When  fortune  smiles,  I  smile  to  think 
How  (quickly  she  will  frown ; 

And  when,  in  froward  mood, 

She  proved  an  angry  foe. 
Small  gain  I  found  to  let  her  come. 

Less  loss  to  let  her  go. 


ALEXAi^DER  HUME. 

[About  1599,] 
A  SUMMER'S  DAY. 

The  time  so  tranquil  is  and  clear, 
That  nowhere  shall  ye  find. 

Save  on  a  high  and  barren  hill, 
An  air  of  passing  wind. 

All  trees  and  simples,  great  and  small, 

That  balmy  leaf  do  bear, 
Than  they  were  painted  on  a  wall, 

No  more  they  move  or  stir. 

The  ships  becalmed  upon  the  seas, 
Hang  u])  tlieir  sails  to  dry  ; 

The  lierds,  beneath  the  leafy  trees, 
Among  the  iiowers  they  lie. 


SIR  JOHN   DAVIES. 


11 


Great  is  the  calm,  for  everywhere 

The  wind  is  settling  down  : 
The  smoke  goes  upright  in  the  air, 

From  every  tower  and  town. 

What  pleasure,  then,  to  walk  and  see, 

Along  a  river  clear, 
The  perfect  fomn  of  every  tree 

Within  the  deep  appear  : 

The  bells  and  circles  on  the  waves, 

From  leaping  of  the  trout ; 
The  salmon  from  their  creels  and  caves 

Come  gliding  in  and  out. 

O  sure  it  were  a  seemly  thing. 

While  all  is  still  and  calm, 
The  praise  of  God  to  play  and  sing, 

With  trumpet  and  with  shalui ! 

All  laborers  draw  home  at  even. 

And  can  to  others  say, 
"  Thanks  to  the  gracious  God  of  heaven. 

Who  sent  this  summer  day." 


SIE  JOHN  DAVIES. 

[1570- 1626.] 

THE  SOUL. 

Again,  how  can  she  but  immortal  be. 
When  with  the  motions  of  both  will 
and  wit 

She  still  aspireth  to  eternity, 

And  never  rests  till  she  attain  to  it  ? 

Water  in  conduit-pipes  can  rise  no  higher 
Than  the  well-head  fi'om  whence  it  iirst 
doth  spring : 
Then,  since  to  eternal  God  she  doth  as- 
pire. 
She  cannot  be  but  an  eternal  thing. 

"All  moving  things  to  other  things  do 
move 
Of  the  same  kind,  which  shows  their 
nature  such  " ; 
So  earth  falls  down,  and  fu-e  doth  mount 
above, 
Till  both  their  proper  elements  do 
touch. 


And  as  the  moisture  wliich  the  thirsty 
earth 
Sucks  from  the  sea  to  fill  her  empty 
veins. 
From  out  her  womb  at  last  doth  take  a 
birth, 
And  runs  a  lymph  along  the  grassy 
plains  : 

Long  doth  she  stay,  as  loth  to  leave  the 
land 
From  whose  soft  side  the  first  did  issue 
make  ; 
She  tastes  all  places,  turns  to  every  hand, 
Her  fiowery  banks  unwilling  to  for- 
sake. 

Yet  Nature  so  her  streams  doth  lead  and 
carry. 
As  that  her  course  doth  make  no  final 
stay, 
Till  she  herself  unto  the  Ocean  marry. 
Within  whose  watery  bosom  first  she 
lay. 

Even  so  the  soul,  which  in  this  earthly 
mould 
The  spirit  of  God  doth  secretly  in- 
fuse. 
Because  at  fii'st  she  doth  the  earth  be- 
hold. 
And  only  this  material  world  she  views. 

At  first  her  mother   Earth  she  holdeth 
dear. 
And  doth    embrace   the  world,    and 
worldly  things. 
She  flies  close  by  the  ground  and  hovers 
here. 
And  mounts  not  up  with  her  celestial 
wings : 

Yet  under  heaven  she  cannot  light  on 
aught 
That  with  her  heavenly  nature  doth 
agree ; 
She   cannot    rest,    she    cannot    fix    her 
thought. 
She  cannot  in  this  world  contented  be. 

For  who  did  ever  yet,  in  honor,  wealth, 
Or  pleasure  of  the  sense,  contentment 
find? 
Who  ever  ceased  to  wish  when  he  had 
wealth? 
Or  having  wisdom  was  not  vexed  in 
mind? 


12 


SONGS   OF  TIIEEE   CENTUEIES. 


Then  as  a  bee,  wliicli  among  weeds  dotli 
fall, 
Which  seem  sweet  flowers  with  lustre 
fresh  and  gay, 
She  lights  on  that  and  this,  and  tasteth 
all; 
But  pleased  with  none,  doth  rise  and 
soar  away. 

So  when  the  soul  finds  here  no  true  con- 
tent, 
And   like   Noah's  dove  can  no  sure 
footing  take, 
She  doth   return  from  whence  she  first 
was  sent, 
And  flies  to  Him  that  first  her  wings 
did  make. 

So  while  the  virgin  soul  on  earth  doth 
stay. 
She,  wooed  and  tempted  in  ten  thou- 
sand ways. 
By  these  great  powers  which  on  the  earth 
bear  sway. 
The   wisdom   of  the  world,    wealth, 
pleasure,  praise: 

With  these  sometimes  she  doth  her  time 
beguile, 
These  do  liy  fibs  her  fantasy  possess ; 
But  she  distastes  them  all  witliin  a  while. 
And  in  the  sweetest  finds  a  tedious- 
ness  ; 

But  if  upon  the  world's  Almighty  King 

She  once  doth  fix  her  humble,  loving 

thought ; 

Who  by  his  picture  drawn  in  every  thing, 

And  sacred   messages,  her  love  hath 

sought ; 

Of  him  she  thinks  she  cannot  think  too 
much ; 
This  honey  tasted  still,  is  ever  sweet ; 
The  pleasure  of  her  ravished  thought  is 
such, 
As  almost  here  she  with  her  bliss  doth 
meet. 

But  when  in  heaven  she  shall  his  essence 
see. 
This  is  her  sovereign  good,  and  perfect 
bliss. 
Her  longings,  wishings,  hopes,  all  fin- 
ished be, 
Her  joys  are  full,  her  motions  rest  in 
this. 


There  is  she  crowned  with  garlands  of 
content ; 
There  doth  she  manna  eat,  and  nectar 
driidc : 
That  presence  doth  such  high  delights 
present. 
As   never    tongue    could    speak,    nor 
heart  could  think. 


THOMAS  NASH. 

[1564- 1600.] 

CONTENTMENT. 

I  NEVER  loved  ambitiously  to  climb. 
Or  thrust  my  hand  too  far  into  the  fii'e. 
To  be  in  heaven  sure  is  a  blessed  thing, 
But,  Atlas-like,  to  prop  heaven  on  one's 

back 
Cannot  but  be  more  labor  than  delight. 
Such  is  the  state  of  men  in  honor  placed  : 
They  are  gold  vessels  made  for  servile 

uses ; 
High  trees  that  keep  the  weather  from 

low  houses. 
But  cannot  shield  the  tempest  from  them- 
selves. 
I  love  to  dwell  betwixt  the  hills  and  dales, 
Neither  to  be  so  great  as  to  be  envied, 
Nor  yet  so  poor  the  world  should  pity  nic. 


WILLIAM  DEUMMOND. 

[1585  - 1649.] 

THE  LESSONS  OF  NATURE. 

Of  this  fair  volume  which  we  World  do 

name 
If  we  the  sheets  and  leaves  could  turn 

with  care. 
Of  him  who  it  corrects,  and  did  it  frame, 
We  clear  might  read  the  art  and  wisdoni 

rai'e : 

Find  out  his  power  which  wildest  powers 

doth  tame, 
His  })rovidence  extending  everywhere. 
His  justice  which  proud  rebels  doth  not 

spare, 
lu  every  page,  no  period  of  the  same. 


SIR   HENRY  WOTTON.  —  LADY   ELIZABETH    CAREW. 


13 


But  silly  we,  like  foolish  cliildreii,  rest 
AVell  pleased  with  colored  vellum,  leaves 

of  gold, 
Fair  dangling  ribbons,  leaving  what  is 

best. 
On  the  great  writer's  sense  ne'er  taking 

hold; 

Or  if  by  chance  we  stay  our  minds  on 

aught, 
It  is  some  picture  on  the  margin  wrought. 


SIR  HENRY  WOTTOK 

[1568  - 1639.] 

TO    HIS    MISTRESS,  THE    QUEEN    OF 
BOHEMIA. 

YoxT  meaner  beauties  of  the  night, 

That  poorly  satisfy  our  eyes 
More  by  your  number  than  your  light ! 

You  common  people  of  the  skies  ! 

What  are  you,  when  the  sun  shall  rise  ? 

You  curious  chanters  of  the  wood. 

That  warble  forth  dame  Nature's  lays, 

Thinking  your  voices  understood 

By  your  weak  accents  !  what 's  your 

praise 
When  Philomel  her  voice  shall  raise  ? 

You  violets  that  first  appear, 

By  your  pure  purple  mantles  known, 
Like  the  proud  virgins  of  the  year, 

As  if  the  spring  were  all  your  own  ! 

What  are  you,  when  the  rose  is  blown  ? 

So,  when  my  mistress  shall  be  seen 
In  form  and  beauty  of  her  mind  ; 

By  virtue  first,  then  choice,  a  Queen ! 
Tell  me,  if  she  were  not  designed 
The  eclipse  and  glory  of  her  kind  ? 


THE  GOOD  MAN. 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught. 
That  serveth  not  another's  will ; 

Whose  armor  is  his  honest  thought. 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill ! 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  ai'e, 
Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death, 


L^ntied  unto  the  worldly  care 

Of  public  fame,  or  private  breath ; 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise, 
Or  vice  ;  who  never  understood 

How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  i)raise  ; 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good ; 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumors  freed, 
Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat ; 

Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed. 
Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great ; 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  jiray. 
More  of  his  gi-ace  than  gifts  to  lend ; 

And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  religious  book  or  friend  : 

This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands, 
Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall ; 

Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands ; 
And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 


LADY  ELIZABETH  CAREW. 

[About  1613.] 

REVENGE  OF  INJURIES. 

The  fairest  action  of  our  human  life 
Is  scorning  to  revenge  an  injury; 

For  who  forgives  without  a  further  strife, 
His  adversary's  heart  to  him  doth  tie ; 

And  't  is  a  firmer  conquest  truly  said, 

To  win  the  heart,  than  overthrow  the  head. 

If  we  a  worthy  enemy  do  find, 

To  yield  to  worth  it  must  be  nobly  done ; 
But  if  of  baser  metal  be  his  mind, 

In  base  revenge  there  is  no  honor  won. 
Who  would  a  worthy  courage  overthrow  ? 
And  who  would  wrestle  with  a  worthless 
foe? 

We  say  our  hearts  are  great,  and  cannot 

yield ; 
Because  they  cannot  yield,  it  proves 

them  poor : 
Great   hearts   are    tasked  beyond  their 

power  but  seld ; 
The  weakest  lion  will  the  loudest  roar. 
Truth's  school  for  certain  doth  this  same 

allow ; 
High-heartedness  doth  sometimes  teach 

to  bow. 


14 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


A   noLle   lioart   doth  teacli   a  virtuous 
scorn :  — 
To  scorn  to  owe  a  duty  overlong ; 
To  scorn  to  be  for  benefits  forborne ; 

To  scorn  to  lie ;  to  scorn  to  do  a  wrong ; 
To  scorn  to  Ijear  an  injury  in  mind ; 
To  scorn  a  free-born  heart  slave-like  to 
bind. 

But  if  for  wrongs  we  needs  revenge  must 

have, 
Then  be  our  vengeance  of  the  noblest 

kind. 
Do  we  his  body  from  our  fury  save, 
And  let  our  hate  prevail  against  his 

mind  ? 
What  can  'gainst  him  a  greater  vengeance 

be, 
Thau  make  his  foe  more  worthy  far  than 

he? 


SAMUEL  DANIEL. 

[1562- 1619.] 

FROM   AN   EPISTLE   TO  THE  COUNT- 
ESS OF  CUMBERLAND. 

He  that  of  such  a  height  hath  built  his 

mind. 
And  reared  the  dwelling  of  his  thoughts 

so  strong, 
As  neither  fear  nor  hope  can  shake  the 

frame 
Of  his  resolved  powers ;  nor  all  the  wind 
Of  vanity  or  malice  pierce  to  wrong 
His  settled  peace,  or  to  disturb  the  same  : 
What  a  fair  seat  hath  he,  from  whence  he 

may 
The  boundless  wastes  and  wilds  of  man 

survey  ? 

And  with  how  free  an  eye  doth  he  look 

down 
TTpon  these  lower  regions  of  turmoil  ? 
Where  all  the  storms  of  passions  mainly 

beat 
On  flesh  and  blood  :  where  honor,  power, 

renown, 
Are  only  gay  afflictions,  golden  toil ; 
Where   gi-eatncss  stands  upon  as  feeble 

feet. 
As  frailty  doth  ;  and  only  great  doth  seem 
To  little  minds,  who  do  it  so  esteem. 


He  looks  upon  the  mightiest  monarch's 

wars 
But  only  as  on  stately  robberies ; 
Where  evermore  the  tbrtune  that  prevails 
Must  be  the  right :  the  ill-succeedingmars 
The  fairest  and  the  best  faced  enter]>rise. 
Great  pirate  Pompey  lesser  pirates  (|uails : 
Justice,  he  sees  (as  if  seduced),  still 
Conspires  with  power,  whose  cause  nmst 

not  be  ill. 

And  whilst  distraught  ambition  com- 
passes, 

And  is  encompassed ;  whilst  as  craft  de- 
ceives, 

And  is  deceived :  whilst  man  doth  ransack 
man. 

And  builds  on  blood,  and  rises  by  distress ; 

And  the  inheritance  of  desolation  leaves 

To  great-expecting  hopes :  he  looks  there- 
on. 

As  from  the  shore  of  peace,  with  unwet 
eye, 

And  bears  no  venture  in  impiety. 

Thus,  madam,  fares  that  man,  that  hath 

prepared 
A  rest  for  his  desires ;  and  sees  all  things 
Beneath  him ;  and  hath  learned  this  book 

of  man. 
Full  of  the  notes  of  frailty ;  and  compared 
The  best  of  glory  with  her  suflerings : 
By  whom,  I  see,  you  labor  all  you  can 
To  plant  yourheart ;  andset  your  thoughts 

as  near 
His  glorious  mansion,  as  your  powers  can 

bear. 

AVhich,  madam,  are  so  soundly  fashioiidd 
By  that  clear  judgment,  that  hath  carried 

you 
Beyond  the  feeble  limits  of  your  kind, 
As  they  can  stand  against  the  strongest 

head 
Passion  can  make ;  inured  to  any  hue 
The  world  can  cast :  it  cannot  cast  that 

mind 
Out  of  her  form  of  goodness,  that  dotli  see 
Both  what  the  best  and  worst  of  earth 

can  be. 

Which  makes,  that  whatsoever  here  be- 
falls. 

You  in  the  region  of  yourself  remain  : 

Where  no  vain  bicatli  of  the  impudent 
molests 

That  hath  secured  within  the  brazen  walls 


WILLIAM   BYED. 


15 


Of  a  clear  conscience,  that  (witliout  all 
stain) 

Rises  in  peace,  in  innocency  rests ; 

Whilst  all  that  Malice  from  without  pro- 
cures 

Shows  her  own  ugly  heart,  but  hurts  not 
yours. 

And  whereas  none  rejoice  more  in  revenge, 
Thau  women   use  to  do  ;   yet   you  well 

know, 
That  wrong  is  better  checked  by  being 

contemned, 
Than  being  pursued ;  leaving  to  him  to 

avenge. 
To  whom  it  appertains.  "Wlierein  you  show 
How  worthily  your  clearness  hath  con- 
demned 
Base  malediction,  living  in  the  dark, 
That  at  the  rays  of  goodness  still  doth 
bark. 

Knowing  the  heart  of  man  is  set  to  be 
The  centre  of  this  world,  about  the  which 
These  revolutions  of  disturbances 
Still  roll ;  where  all  the  aspects  of  misery 
Predominate :    whose  strong  effects  are 

such. 
As  he  must  bear,  being  powerless  to  re- 
dress : 
And  that  unless  above  himself  he  can 
Erect  lumself,  how  poor  a  thing  is  man. 


MLLIAM  BIRD. 

[1540-1623.] 

MY  MIND  TO  ME  A  KINGDOM  IS. 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is  ; 

Such  perfect  joy  therein  I  find 
As  far  exceeds  all  earthly  bliss 

That  God  or  Nature  hath  assigned  ; 
Though  much  I  want  that  most  would 

have. 
Yet  still  my  mind  forbids  to  crave. 

Content  I  live ;  this  is  my  stay,  — 
I  seek  no  more  than  may  suffice. 

I  press  to  bear  no  hauglity  sway ; 

Look,  what  I  lack  my  mind  supplies. 

Lo  !  thus  I  triumph  like  a  king. 

Content  with  that  my  mind  doth  bring. 


I  see  how  plenty  surfeits  oft. 
And  hasty  climbers  soonest  fall ; 

I  see  that  such  as  sit  aloft 

Mishap  doth  threaten  most  of  all. 

These  get  with  toil,  and  keep  with  fear ; 

Such  cares  my  mind  could  never  beai-. 

No  princely  pomp  nor  wealthy  store, 

No  force  to  win  the  victory, 
No  wily  wit  to  salve  a  sore. 

No  shape  to  win  a  lover's  eye,  — 
To  none  of  these  1  yield  as  thrall ; 
For  why,  my  mind  despiseth  all. 

Some  have  too  much,  yet  still  they  crave  ; 

1  little  have,  yet  seek  no  more. 
They  are  but  poor,  though  much  they 
have  ; 

And  I  am  rich  with  little  store. 
They  poor,  I  rich ;  they  beg,  I  give ; 
They  lack,  1  lend ;  they  pine,  I  live. 

I  laugh  not  at  another's  loss, 
I  grudge  not  at  another's  gain ; 

No  worhlly  wave  my  mind  can  toss ; 
I  brook  that  is  another's  bane. 

I  fear  no  foe,  nor  fawn  on  friend; 

I  loathe  not  life,  nor  dread  mine  end. 

I  joy  not  in  no  earthly  bliss ; 

I  weigh  not  Criesus'  wealth  a  straw  ; 
For  care,  I  care  not  what  it  is ; 

I  fear  not  fortune's  fatal  law ; 
My  mind  is  such  as  may  not  move 
For  beauty  bright,  or  force  of  love. 

I  wish  but  what  I  have  at  will ; 

I  wander  not  to  seek  for  more ; 
I  like  the  i)lain,  I  climb  no  hill; 

In  greatest  storms  I  sit  on  shore. 
And  laugh  at  them  that  toil  in  vain 
To  get  what  must  be  lost  again. 

I  kiss  not  where  I  wish  to  kill ; 

I  feign  not  love  where  most  I  hate ; 
I  break  no  sleep  to  win  my  will ; 

I  wait  not  at  the  mighty's  gate. 
I  scorn  no  poor,  I  fear  no  rich ; 
I  feel  no  want,  nor  have  too  much. 

The  court  nor  cart  I  like  nor  loathe ; 

Extremes  are  counted  w^orst  of  all ; 
The  golden  mean  betwixt  them  both 

Doth  sixrest  sit,  and  fears  no  fdl ; 
This  is  my  choice ;  for  why,  I  find 
No  wealth  is  like  a  quiet  mind. 


16 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTUEIES. 


My  wealth  is  health  and  perfect  ease; 

My  conscience  clear  my  chief  defence ; 
I  never  seek  by  bribes  to  jdease, 

Nor  by  desert  to  give  offence. 
Tims  do  1  live,  thus  will  1  die ; 
"W  ould  all  did  so  as  well  as  I ! 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEAriE. 

[1564- 1616.] 

SONGS. 

ARIEL'S  SONG. 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  lurk  I ; 
In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie  ; 
There  I  couch  wdien  owls  do  cry ; 
On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly. 
After  summer  merrily, 
JMeirily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now, 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the 
bough. 

THE  FAIRY  TO  PUCK. 

Over  hill,  over  dale, 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  brier, 

Over  park,  over  pale. 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 

I  do  wander  everywhere. 

Swifter  than  the  moon's  .sphere. 

And  I  serve  the  Fairy  Queen, 

To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green ; 

The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be. 

In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see,  — 

Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favors ; 

In  those  freckles  live  their  savors. 

I  must  go  seek  some  dew-drops  liere, 

And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 


AMIENS'S  SONG. 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 

As  man's  ingratitude ; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  .so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 
As  beneiits  foi'got : 


Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thj'  sting  is  not  so  sharp 
As  friend  remembered  not. 


A  SEA  DIRGE. 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies : 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made ; 
Those  are  peai'ls  that  were  his  eyes : 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suifer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  liourl}^  ring  liis  knell: 
Hark  !  now  1  hear  them,  — 
Ding,  dong,  bell. 


HARK!  HARK!  THE  LARK! 

Hark  !  hark  !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate 
sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies ; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes ; 
With  everything  that  pretty  bin; 

My  lady  sweet,  arise. 


UNDER  THE  GREENWOOD-TREE. 

Undeu  the  greenwood-tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  tune  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  biid's  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither; 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy. 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

"\^^lo  doth  ambition  shun. 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun. 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats. 
And  plea.sed  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither! 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy. 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 


DIRGE   FOR   FIDEIiE. 

Fear  no  more  the  lieat  o'  the  sun. 
Nor  the  fuiious  winter's  rages; 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done. 
Home  art  gone,  and  ta'en  thy  wages : 


WILLIAM   SHAKESPEAEE, 


17 


Golden  luds  and  girls  all  must, 

As  chimuey-swecpers,  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  the  great. 
Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke  ; 
Care  no  more  to  clothe,  and  eat ; 
To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak  : 
The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 
All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  lightning  flash, 
Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunder-stone ; 
Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash  ; 
Thou  hast  iinished  joy  and  moan : 
All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 
Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust. 

No  exerciser  harm  thee  ! 
Nor  no  witchcraft  charm  thee! 
Ghost  unlaid  forbear  thee  ! 
Nothing  ill  come  near  thee  ! 
Quiet  consummation  have ; 
And  renowned  be  thy  grave. 


SONNETS. 

WiiKN  in   disgrace   with  fortune    and 
men's  ej'es, 

I  nil  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, 

And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  boot- 
less cries, 

A  id  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate, 

V.'i  slung  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in 
hope. 

Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends 
possessed, 

Desiring  this  man's  art,  and  that  man's 
scope. 

With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least ; 

Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  de- 
spising. 

Haply  I  think  on  thee,  —  and  then  my 
state 

(Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 

From  sullen  earth)  sings  hymns  at  heav- 
en's gate  ; 
For  thy  sweet  love  remembered,  such 

wealth  brings. 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state 
with  kings. 


Whex  to  the   sessions  of  sweet  silent 

thought 
I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 
I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 


And  with   old  woes  new  wail  my  dear 

time's  waste: 
Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  irnused  to  flow, 
For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  date- 
less night. 
And  weep  afresh  love's  long-since-can- 
celled woe. 
And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  van- 
ished sight. 
Then  can  1  grieve  at  grievances  foregone. 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 
The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 
Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before. 
But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear 

friend. 
All  losses  are  restored,   and  sorrows 
end. 


That  time  of  year  thou  mayst  in  me  be- 
hold 

When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do 
hang 

Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against 
the  cold, 

Bare  ruined  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet 
birds  sang. 

Li  me  thou  seest  the  twilight  of  such  day, 

As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west. 

Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take 
away. 

Death's  second  self,  that  seals  iip  all  in 
rest. 

In  me  thou  seest  the  glowing  of  such 
fire, 

That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie, 

As  the  death- bed  whereon  it  must  ex- 
pire. 

Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nour- 
ished by. 
This  thou  perceiv'st,  which  makes  thy 

love  more  strong. 
To  love  that  well  which   thou   must 
leave  erelong. 


They  that  have  power  to  hurt  and  will 
do  none. 

That  do  not  do  the  thing  they  most  do 
show. 

Who,  moving  others,  are  themselves  as 
stone, 

Unmoved,  cold,  and  to  temptation  slow ; 

They  rightly  do  inherit  heaven's  graces. 

And  husbnnd  nature's  riches  from  ex- 
pense ; 


18 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTITTJES. 


Tliey  are  tlie  lords  and  owners  of  tlieir 

faces, 
Others  but  stewards  of  their  excellence. 
The  summer's  flower  is  to  the  summer 

sweet, 
Though  to  itself  it  only  live  and  die  ;  _ 
But  if  that  flower  with  base   infection 

meet. 
The  basest  weed  outbraves  his  dignity : 
For  sweetest  things   turn   sourest  by 

their  deeds ; 
Lilies  that  fester  smell  far  worse  than 
weeds. 

Alas,  't  is  true,  1  have  gone  here  and  there, 
Aud  made  myself  a  motley  to  the  view. 
Gored  mine  own   thoughts,  sold   cheap 

what  is  most  dear. 
Made  old  off'ences  of  aff'ections  new. 
Most  true  it  is,  that  1  have  looked  on 

truth 
Askance  and  strangely ;  but,  by  all  above, 
These  blenches  gave  my  heart  another 

youth. 
And  worse  essays  proved  thee  my  best  of 

love. 
Now  all  is  done,  save  what  shall  have  no 

end: 
Mine  appetite  I  never  more  will  grind 
On  newer  proof,  to  try  an  older  frieiul, 
A  God  in  love,  to  whom  I  am  confined. 
Then  give  me  welcome,  next  my  heaven 

the  best. 
Even  to  thy  pure  and  most  most  loving 

breast. 


Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 
"VVliiih  alters  when  it  alteration  finds. 
Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove ; 
O  no ;  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark. 
That  looks  on   tempests,  and   is   never 

shaken ; 
It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 
"Whose  worth's  unknown,  although  his 

height  be  taken. 
Love 's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips 

and  cheeks 
Within   his   bending    sickle's    compass 
come ;  ^  i  i 

Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and 

weeks. 
But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 
If  this  be  error,  and  u])on  me  proved, 
I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 


No !  Time,  thou  shalt  not  boast  that  I 

do  change : 
Thy  pyramids  built  up  with  newer  might 
To  me  an;  nothing  novel,  nothing  strange ; 
They  are  but  dressings  of  a  former  sight. 
Our   dates   are  brief,    and   therefore  we 

admire 
What  thou  dost  foist  upon  us  that  is  old ; 
And  rather  make  them  born  to  our  desire, 
Than  think  that  we  before  have  heard 

them  told. 
Thy  registers  and  thee  I  both  defy, 
Not  wonderingat  thepresentnor  thepast ; 
For  thy  records  and  what  we  see  do  lie, 
Made  more  or  less  by  thy  continual  haste : 
This  I  do  vow,  and  this  shall  ever  be, 
I  will  be  true,  despite  thy  scythe  and 
thee. 


BEN  JONSON. 
[1S74-1637] 

THE  KOBLE  NATURE. 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 
In  Inilk,  doth  make  man  better  be; 
Or  standing  long  an  oak,  three  hundred 

year, 
To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  sere  : 
A  lily  of  a  day 
Is  fairer  far  in  May, 
Although  it  fall  and  die  thatnight,— 
It  was  the  plant  and  Hower  of  Light. 
In  small  proportions  we  just  beauties  see  ; 
And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be. 


SONG  OF  HESPERUS. 

QtTRKN,  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair, 
Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep, 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chair, 
State  in  wonted  manner  keep: 
Hesperus  entreats  thy  light, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose; 

Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 

Heaven  to  clear,  when  day  did  close: 
Bless  us  then  with  wislied  sight, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 


UNKNOWN. 


19 


Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart, 

Anil  thy  crystal  shining  ([uiver ; 

Give  unto  the  Hying  hart 

Space  to  breathe,  how  sliort  soever: 
Thou  that  niakest  a  tlay  of  uight, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 


ON  LUCY,   COUNTESS  OF  BEDFORD. 

This  morning,  timely  rapt  with  holy  fire, 
I  thought  to  form  unto  my  zealous  Muse, 
What  kind  of  creature  I  could  most  desire. 
To  lionor,  serve,  and  love ;  as  poets  use, 
I  meant  to  make  her  fair,  and  free,  and 
wise. 
Of  greatest  blood,  and  yet  more  good 
than  great ; 
I  meant  the  day-star  should  not  brighter 
rise, 
Nor  lend  like  influence  from  his  lucent 
seat. 
I  meant  she  should  be  courteous,  facile, 
sweet, 
Hating  that  solemn  vice  of  greatness, 
pride  ; 
I  meant  each  softest  virtue  there  should 
meet, 
Fit  in  that  softer  bosom  to  reside. 
Only  a  learned  and  a  manly  soul 

1    purposed   her;    that    sliould,    with 

even  powers, 

Tlie  rock,  the  spindle,  and   the   shears 

control 

Of  Destiny,  and  spin  her  own  free  hours. 

Such  when  I  meant  to  feign,  and  wished 

to  see. 
My  Muse  bade,  Bedford  waite,  and  that 
was  she. 


THE  SWEET  NEGLECT. 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest, 

As  you  were  going  to  a  feast: 

Still  to  be  powdered,  still  perfumed : 

Lady,  it  is  to  be  presumed, 

Though  art's  hid  causes  are  not  found, 

All  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 

Give  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face, 

That  makes  simplicity  a  grace ; 

Kobes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free : 

Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me, 

Than  all  the  adulteries  of  art. 

That  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  my  heart. 


HOW  NEAR  TO  GOOD  IS  WHAT  IS  FAIR  I 

How  near  to  good  is  what  is  fair ! 

Which  we  no  sooner  see, 
But  with  the  lines  and  outward  air 

Our  senses  taken  be. 
We  wish  to  see  it  still,  and  prove 

What  ways  we  may  deserve ; 
We  court,  we  praise,  we  more  than  love. 

We  are  not  grieved  to  serve. 


EPITAPH  ON  ELIZABETH  L.   H. 

WouLDST  thou  hear  what  man  can  say 

In  a  little? — reader,  stay  ! 

Underneath  this  stone  tloth  lie 

As  mucli  beauty  as  could  die,  — 

Which  in  life  did  harbor  give 

To  more  virtue  than  doth  live. 

If  at  all  she  had  a  fault, 

Leave  it  buried  in  this  vault. 

One  name  was  Elizabeth,  — 

The  other,  let  it  sleep  with  death. 

Fitter  where  it  died  to  tell, 

Than  that  it  lived  at  all.     Farewell ! 


UNKNOWN. 

[Before  1649.] 
LOVE  WILL  FIND  OUT  THE  WAT. 

Over  the  moimtains. 

And  under  the  waves, 
Over  the  fountains, 

And  under  the  graves, 
Under  floods  which  are  deepest. 

Which  Neptune  obey, 
Over  rocks  whicii  are  steepest. 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

Where  there  is  no  place 

For  the  glow-worm  to  lie, 
Where  there  is  no  place 

For  the  receipt  of  a  fly, 
Wliere  the  gnat  dares  not  venture, 

Lest  herself  fast  she  lay. 
If  Love  come  he  M'ill  enter. 

And  find  out  the  way. 

If  that  he  were  hidden. 
And  all  men  that  are. 

Were  strictly  forbidden 
That  place  to  declare ; 


20 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Winds  that,  have  no  aliidings, 

Pitying  their  delay, 
Woukl  eonie  and  bring  him  tidings, 

And  direct  him  the  way. 

If  the  earth  shonhi  part  him, 

He  wonld  gallop  it  o'er  ; 
If  the  seas  should  o'erthwart  him. 

He  would  swim  to  the  shore. 
Should  his  love  become  a  swallow, 

Through  the  air  to  stray, 
Love  will  lend  wings  to  follow. 

And  will  find  ovit  the  way. 

There  is  no  striving 

To  cross  his  intent, 
There  is  no  contriving 

His  plots  to  prevent ; 
But  if  once  the  message  greet  him, 

That  his  true  love  dotli  stay, 
If  death  should  conu^  ami  meet  him, 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 


UNKNOWN. 

[Before  1689.] 
MAY-DAY  SONG. 

Remember  us  poor  Mayers  all ! 

And  thus  do  we  begin 
To  h^ad  our  lives  in  righteousness, 

Or  else  we  die  in  sin. 

We  have  been  rambling  all  the  night, 

And  almost  all  the  day ; 
Anil  now  returned  back  again. 

We  have  brought  you  a  branch  of  May. 

A  branch  of  May  we  have  brought  you, 
And  at  your  door  it  stands : 

It  is  but  a  sprout, 

But  it 's  well  budded  out 
By  the  work  of  our  Lord's  hands. 

The  heavenly  gates  are  open  wide, 

Our  paths  are  beaten  plain  ; 
And  if  a  man  be  not  too  far  gone, 

He  may  return  again. 

The  moon  shines  bright,  and  the  stars 
giv(!  a  light, 
A  little  before  it  is  day ; 
So  God   bless   you   all,  both  great  and 
small. 
And  send  you  a  joyful  May ! 


UNKNOWN. 

[Before  1649.] 
BEGONE   DULL   CARE  I 

Beoone  dull  care  ! 

1  prithee  begone  from  me : 
Begone  dull  care  ! 

Thou  and  I  can  never  agree. 
Long  while  thou  hast  been  tarrying  here, 

And  fain  thou  w'ouldst  me  kill ; 
But  i'  faith,  dull  care, 

Thou  never  shaft  have  thy  will. 

Too  much  care 

Will  make  a  young  man  gi'ay ; 
Too  nnich  care 

Will  turn  an  old  man  to  clay. 
My  wife  shall  dance,  and  I  will  sing, 

So  merrily  pass  the  day ; 
For  1  hold  it  is  the  wisest  thing, 

To  drive  dull  care  away. 

Hence,  dull  care, 

I  '11  none  of  thy  company; 
Hence,  dull  care. 

Thou  art  no  pair  for  me. 
We  '11  hunt  the  wild  boar  through  the 
wold, 

So  merrily  pass  the  day ; 
And  then  at  night,  o'er  a  cheerful  bowl. 

We  '11  drive  dull  care  away. 


BISHOP  EICHAED  CORBETT. 

[1582-1635.] 

FAREWELL  TO  THE  FAIRIES. 

Farewell  rewards  and  fairies  ! 

Good  housewifes  now  may  say. 
For  now  foul  sluts  in  dairies 

Do  fare  as  well  as  they. 
And  though  they  sweep  their  hearths  no 
less 

Than  maids  were  wont  to  do ; 
Yet  who  of  late,  for  cleanliness, 

Finds  sixpence  in  her  shoe  ? 

Lament,  lament,  old  Abbeys, 

The  fairies'  lost  command; 
They  did  but  idiange  ]n-iests'  babies, 

But  some  have  clianged  your  land  ; 
And  all  your  children  sprung  fromtheuco 

Are  now  grown  Puritans ; 


UNKNOWN". 


21 


Who  live  as  changelings  ever  since, 
For  love  of  your  domains. 

At  morning  and  at  evening  both, 

You  merry  were  and  glad, 
So  little  care  of  sleep  or  sloth 

These  pretty  ladies  had ; 
When  Tom  came  home  from  labor, 

Or  Cis  to  milking  rose, 
Then  merrily  went  theii-  tabor. 

And  nimbly  went  their  toes. 

Witness  those  rings  and  roundelays 

Of  theirs,  which  yet  remain, 
Were  footed  in  Queen  ]\lary's  days 

On  many  a  grassy  plain ; 
But  since  of  late  Elizabeth, 

And  later,  James  came  in. 
They  never  danced  on  any  heath 

As  when  the  time  hath  been. 

By  which  we  note  the  fairies 

Were  of  the  old  profession. 
Their  songs  were  Ave-Maries, 

Their  dances  were  procession : 
But  now,  alas  !  they  all  are  dead, 

Or  gone  beyond  the  seas ; 
Or  farther  for  religion  fled ; 

Or  else  they  take  their  ease. 

A  tell-tale  in  their  company 

They  never  could  endure. 
And  whoso  kept  not  secretly 

Their  mirth,  was  punished  sure  ; 
It  was  a  just  and  Christian  deed. 

To  pinch  such  l)lack  and  blue : 
0,  how  the  conmionwealth  doth  need 

Such  justices  as  you ! 


UNKNOWN. 

[Before  1649.] 

ROBIN  GOODFELLOW. 

Fkom  Oberon,  in  fairy- land. 

The  king  of  ghosts  and  shadows  there, 
Mad  Robin  I,  at  his  command, 
Am  sent  to  view  the  night-sports  here. 

What  revel  rout 

Is  kept  about. 
In  every  corner  where  I  go, 

I  will  o'ersee. 

And  merry  be. 
And  make  good  sport,  with  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 


More  swift  than  lightning  can  I  fly 

About  this  airy  welkin  soon. 
And,  in  a  minute's  space,  descry 

Each  thing  that 's  done  below  the  moon. 

There 's  not  a  hag 

Or  ghost  shall  wag. 
Or  crv,  'ware  goblins  !  where  I  go ; 

But  Robin  I 

Their  feasts  will  spy. 
And  send  them  home  with  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

AVhene'er  such  wanderers  I  meet. 

As  from  their  night-sports  they  trudge 
home. 
With  counterfeiting  voice  I  greet, 
And  call  them  on  with  me  to  roam : 
Through  woods,  through  lakes ; 
Through  bogs,  througli  brakes; 
Or  else,  unseen,  with  them  1  go. 
All  in  the  nick. 
To  play  some  trick. 
And  frolic  it,  with  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

Sometimes  I  meet  them  like  a  man, 

Sometunes  an  ox,  sometimes  a  hound ; 
And  to  a  horse  I  turn  me  can. 

To  trip  and  trot  about  them  round. 

But  if  to  ride 

My  back  they  stride. 
More  swift  than  wind  away  I  go, 

O'er  hedge  and  lands. 

Through  pools  and  ponds, 
I  hurry,  laughing,  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

When  lads  and  lasses  meny  be, 

With  iiossets  and  with  junkets  fine ; 
Unseen  of  all  the  company, 

I  eat  their  cakes  and  sip  their  wine ! 

And,  to  make  sport, 

I  puff  and  snort: 
And  out  the  candles  I  do  blow : 

The  maids  I  kiss. 

They  shriek— Who  's  this? 
I  answer  naught  but  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

Yet  now  and  then,  the  maids  to  please, 

At  midnight  I  card  up  tlieir  wool ; 
And,  while  they  sleep  and  take  their 
ease. 
With  wheel  to  threads  their  flax  I  pull. 
I  grind  at  mill 
Their  malt  up  still ; 
I  dress  their  hemp  ;  I  spin  their  tow ; 
If  any  wake. 
And  would  me  take, 
I  wend  me,  laughing,  ho,  ho,  ho ! 


22 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


When  any  nood  to  borrow  anglit, 

We.  lend  them  what  they  do  require : 
And  lor  the  nse  demand  we  naught; 
Our  own  is  all  we  do  desire. 
If  to  repay 
They  do  delay, 
Abroad  amongst  them  then  I  go, 
And  night  by  night, 
I  them  atiiight, 
With  piuchings,  dreams,  and  ho,  ho, 
ho! 

When  lazy  queans  have  naught  to  do. 

But  study  how  to  cog  and  lie ; 
To  make  debate  and  mischief  too, 
'Twixt  one  another  secretly  : 
I  mark  their  gloze. 
And  it  disclose 
To  them  whom  they  have  wronged  so : 
When  I  have  done 
I  get  me  gone, 
And    leave    them   scoldhig,   ho,   ho, 
ho! 

When  men  do  traps  and  engines  set 

In  loopholes,  where  the  vermin  creep, 
Who  from  their  folds  and  houses  get 
Their  ducks  and  geese,  and  lambs  and 
sheep ; 
I  spy  the  gin. 
And  enter  in, 
And  seem  a  vermin  taken  so ; 
But  when  they  there 
Approach  me  near, 
I  leap  out  laughing,  ho,  lio,  ho ! 

By  wells  and  rills,  in  meadows  green, 

We  nightly  dance  our  lieyday  guise; 
And  to  our  fiiiry  king  and  (pieen, 

We  chant  our  moonliglit  minstrelsies. 
When  larks  'gin  sing. 
Away  we  fling ; 
And  babes  new-born  steal  as  we  go; 
And  elf  in  bed 
We  leave  in  stead. 
And  wend  us  laughing  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

From  hag-bred  Merlin's  time,  have  I 

Thus  nightly  revelled  to  and  fro ; 
And  for  my  pranks  men  call  me  by 
The  name  of  Robin  Goodfellow. 
Fiends,  ghosts,  and  sprites. 
Who  haunt  the  nights, 
The  hags  and  goblins  tlo  nic  know; 
And  beldames  old 
My  feats  have  told, 
So  vale,  vale  ;  ho,  ho,  ho ! 


UNKNOWN. 

[Before  1649.] 
EDOM  O'  GORDON. 

It  fell  about  the  Martinmas, 

When  the  wind  blew  shrill  and  cauld. 
Said  Edom  o'  Gordon  to  his  men, 

"We  maun  draw  to  a  hauld. 

"And  whatna  hauld  sail  we  draw  to, 

My  merry  men  and  me  ? 
We  will  gae  to  the  house  of  the  Rodes, 

To  see  that  fair  ladye." 

The  lady  stood  on  her  castle  wa', 
Beheld  baith  dale  and  down ; 

There  she  was  aware  of  a  host  of  men 
Came  riding  towards  the  town. 

"0  see  ye  not,  my  merry  men  a', 

0  see  ye  not  what  I  see? 
Methinks  I  see  a  host  of  men ; 

1  marvel  who  they  be." 

She  weened  it  had  been  her  lovely  lord, 

As  he  cam'  riding  hame  ; 
It  was  the  traitor,  Edom  o'  Gordon, 

Wha  recked  nor  sin  nor  shame. 

She  had  nae  sooner  buskit  hersell, 

And  ](utten  on  her  gown, 
Till  Edom  o'  (iordon  an'  his  men 

Were  round  about  the  town. 

They  had  nae  sooner  supper  set, 

Nae  sooner  said  the  grace. 
But  Edom  o'  Gordon  an'  his  men 

Were  lighted  about  the  place. 

The  lady  ran  up  to  her  tower-head. 

As  fast  as  she  could  hie. 
To  see  if  by  her  fair  s]ieeches 

She  could  wi'  him  agree. 


"  Come  doun  to  me,  ye  lady  gay, 
Come  doun,  come  doun  to  me  ; 

This  night  sail  ye  lig  within  mine  ams, 
To-morrow  my  bride  sail  be. " 

"I  winna  come  dovro,  ye  fanse  Gordon, 
I  winna  come  down  to  thee  ; 

I  winna  forsake  my  ain  dear  lord, — 
And  he  is  na  far  frae  me." 


UNKNOWN. 


23 


"Gie  owre  your  house,  ye  lady  fair, 

Gie  owre  your  house  to  me ; 
Or  I  sail  burn  yoursell  therein, 

But  aud  your  babies  three." 

"  I  winna  gie  o\vre,  ye  fause  Gordon, 

To  nae  sic  traitor  as  thee ; 
And  if  ye  burn  my  ain  dear  babes, 

My  lord  sail  mak'  ye  di'ee. 

"Now  reach  my  pistol,  Glaud,  my  man, 
And  charge  ye  weel  my  gun ; 

For,  but  an  I  pierce  that  bluidy  butcher, 
My  babes,  we  been  undone  !" 

She  stood  upon  her  castle  wa'. 

And  let  twa  bullets  flee  : 
She  missed  that  bluidy  butcher's  heart. 

And  only  razed  his  knee. 

"Set  fire  to  the  house  !"  quo' fause  Gordon, 

Wud  wi'  dule  aud  ire : 
"Fause  ladye,  ye  sail  rue  that  shot 

As  ye  burn  in  the  fire  !  " 

"Wae  worth,  wae  worth  ye,  Jock,myman  ! 

I  paid  ye  weel  your  fee ; 
Why  pu'  ye  out  the  grund-wa'  stane, 

Lets  in  the  reek  to  me  ? 

"And  e'en  wae  worth  ye,  Jock,  my  man  ! 

I  paid  ye  weel  your  hire ; 
Why  pu'  ye  out  the  grund-wa'  stane, 

To  me  lets  in  the  lire?" 

"Ye  paid  me  weel  my  hire,  ladye, 

Ye  jjaid  me  weel  my  fee  : 
But  now  I  'm  Edom  o'  Gordon's  man,  — 

Maun  either  do  or  dee." 

0  then  bespake  her  little  son, 

Sat  on  the  nurse's  knee : 
Says,  "O  mitherdear,  gie  owre  this  house, 

For  the  reek  it  smothers  me." 

"  I  wad  gie  a'  my  goud,  my  bairn, 

Sae  wad  I  a'  my  fee. 
For  ae  blast  o'  the  western  wind. 

To  blaw  the  reek  frae  thee." 

0  then  bespake  her  daughter  dear,  — 
She  was  baith  jimp  and  sma' : 

"  0  row'  me  in  a  pair  o'  sheets. 
And  tow  me  o'er  the  wa' !" 

They  row'd  her  in  a  pair  o'  sheets, 
And  tow'd  her  owre  the  wa' ; 


But  on  the  point  o'  Gordon's  spear 
She  gat  a  deadly  fa'. 

0  bonnie,  bonnie  was  her  mouth, 
And  cherry  were  her  cheeks. 

And  clear,  clear  was  her  yellow  hair. 
Whereon  the  red  blood  dreeps. 

Then  wa'  his  spear  he  turned  her  owre  ; 

0  gin  her  face  was  wan  ! 

He  said,  "Ye  are  the  first  that  e'er 

1  wished  alive  again." 

He  cam'  and  lookit  again  at  her ; 

0  gin  her  skin  was  white  ! 

"I  might  hae  spared  that  bonnie  face 
To  hae  been  some  man's  delight." 

"  Busk  and  boun,  my  merry  men  a'. 
For  ill  dooms  I  do  guess ;  — 

1  cannot  look  on  that  bonnie  face 
As  it  lies  on  the  grass." 

"  Wha  looks  to  freits,  my  master  dear, 

Its  freits  will  follow  them  ; 
Let  it  ne'er  be  said  that  Edom  o'  Gordon 

Was  daunted  by  a  dame." 

But  when  the  ladye  saw  the  fire 

Come  llamiug  o'er  her  head. 
She  wept,  and  kissed  her  children  twain. 

Says,  "Bairns,  we  been  but  dead." 

The  Gordon  then  his  bugle  blew. 

And  said,  "  Awa',  awa' ! 
This  house  o'  the  Eodes  is  a'  in  a  Hame ; 

1  hauld  it  time  to  ga'." 

And  this  way  lookit  her  ain  dear  lord. 

As  he  came  owre  the  lea ; 
He  saw  his  castle  a'  in  a  lowe, 

Sae  far  as  he  could  see. 

"Put  on,  put  on,  my  wighty  men. 

As  fast  as  ye  can  dri'e  ! 
For  he  that 's  hindmost  o'  tlie  tlu'ang 

Sail  ne'er  get  good  o'  me." 

Then  some  they  rade,  and  some  they  ran, 
Out-owre  the  grass  and  Ijent ; 

But  ere  the  foremost  could  win  up, 
Baith  lady  and  babes  were  brent. 

And  after  the  Gordon  he  is  gane, 

Sae  fast  as  he  might  dri'e ; 
And  soon  i'  the  Gordon's  foul  heart's blude 

He  's  wrokeu  his  fau-  ladye. 


24 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTUEIES. 


UNKNOWN. 

TAKE  THY  ATJLD  CLOAK  ABOUT  THEE. 

In  winter,  when  the  rain  rained  canlil, 

And  frost  and  snow  were  on  the  hill, 
And  Boreas  with  his  blasts  sae  bauld 

Was  threat'ning  all  our  kye  to  kill ; 
Then  Bell,  my  wife,  wha  loves  not  strife. 

She  said  to  me  right  hastilie, 
"Get  up,  gudeman,  save  Crunmiie's  life. 

And  take  thy  auld  cloak  about  thee ! 

"  Cow  Crummie  is  a  useful  cow. 

And  she  is  come  of  a  good  kin' ; 
Aft  has  she  wet  the  bairuies'  mou', 

And  1  am  laith  that  slie  should  pine : 
Get  up,  gudeman,  it  is  fu'  time  ! 

The  sun  shines  frae  the  lift  sae  hie ; 
Sloth  never  made  a  gracious  end,  — 

Gae,  take  thy  auld  cloak  about  thee ! " 

"  My  cloak  was  once  a  gude  gray  cloak. 

When  it  was  fitting  for  my  wear ; 
But  now  it 's  scantly  worth  a  groat, 

For  1  hae  worn 't  this  thirt}'  year  : 
Let 's  spend  the  gear  that  we  hac  won, 

We  little  ken  the  day  we  '11  dee ; 
Then  I  '11  be  proud,  since  I  hac  sworn 

To  hae  a  new  cloak  about  me." 

"  In  days  when  our  King  Eobert  reigned. 

His  breeches  cost  but  half  a  crown ; 
He  said  they  were  a  groat  too  dear. 

And  ca'd  the  tailor  thief  and  loun. 
He  was  the  king  that  wore  the  crown, 

And  thou  the  man  of  low  degree  : 
It 's  pride  puts  a'  the  country  down, 

Sae  take  thy  auld  cloak  about  thee !" 

"  0  Bell,  my  wife,  why  dost  thou  flout? 

Now  is  now,  and  then  was  then. 
Seek  anywhere  the  world  throughout. 

Thou  ken'st  not  clowns  from  gentle- 
men. 
They  are  clad  in  black,  green,  yellow, 
and  gray, 

Sae  far  above  their  ain  degree : 
Once  in  my  life  I  '11  do  as  they, 

For  I  '11  have  a  new  cloak  about  me." 

"  Gudeman,  I  wot  it 's  tliirty  year 
Sin'  we  did  aue  anither  ken, 

And  we  hae  had  atween  us  twa 
Of  lads  and  bouTue  lasses  ten  ; 

Now  they  are  women  grown  and  men, 
I  wish  and  pray  weel  may  they  be : 


If  thou  wilt  prove  a  good  husband, 
E'en  take  thy  auld  cloak  about  thee." 

Bell,  my  wife,  she  loves  not  strife, 

But  she  will  rule  me  if  she  can : 
And  oft,  to  lead  a  quiet  life, 

I  'm  forced  to  yield,  though  I  'm  gude- 
man. 
It 's  not  for  a  man  with  a  woman  to 
threape 

Unless  he  first  give  o'er  the  plea  : 
As  we  began  so  will  we  leave. 

And  I  '11  take  my  auld  cloak  about  me. 


UNKNOWN. 

THE  BARRING  O'  THE  DOOR. 

It  fell  about  the  Martinmas  time, 

And  a  gay  time  it  was  than. 
When   our  gudevvife   got   puddings  to 
make. 

And  she  boiled  them  in  the  pan. 

The  wind  sae  cauld  blew  east  and  north, 

It  blew  into  the  floor: 
Quoth  oui'  gudeman  to  our  gudewife, 

"Gae  out  and  bar  the  door  ! " 

"  My  hand  is  in  my  huswif's  kap, 

Gudeman,  as  ye  may  see; 
An'  it  should  nae  be  barred  this  hundred 
year. 

It 's  no  be  barred  for  me." 

They  made  a  paction  'tween  them  twa, 

They  made  it  firm  and  sure. 
That  the  iust  word  whae'er  should  speak 

Should  rise  and  bar  the  door. 

Then  by  there  came  twa  gentlemen 

At  twelve  o'clock  at  night ; 
And  tliev  could  neither  see  house  nor 
hall. 

Nor  coal  nor  candle  light. 

And  first  they  ate  the  white  puddings, 
And  then  they  ate  the  black ; 

Though  nuickh;  thought  the  gudewife  to 
hersel'. 
Yet  ne'er  a  word  she  spak'. 

Then  said  the  one  unto  the  other, 
"Here,  man,  tak'  ye  my  knife  ! 


THOMAS   CAREW. — WILLIAM   BROWNE, 


25 


Do  ye  talv'  aff  the  aiiM  man's  heard, 
And  I  '11  kiss  the  gudewife." 

"  But  there  's  nae  water  in  the  house. 
And  what  shall  we  do  than?" 

"  Wliat  ails  ye  at  the  puddin'  broo 
That  boils  into  the  pan?" 

O,  up  then  started  our  gudeman, 

And  an  angry  man  was  he  : 
"  Will  ye  kiss  my  wife  before  my  een, 

And  scaud  me  wi'  puddin'  bree  ? " 

Then  up  and  started  our  gudewife, 
Gied  three  skips  on  the  floor : 

"Gudeman,  ye 've  spoken  the  foremost 
word,  — 
Get  up  and  bar  the  door ! " 


THOMAS  CAEEW. 

[1589-1639.] 

HE  THAT  LOVES  A  ROSY  CHEEK. 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek. 

Or  a  coral  lip  admires, 
Or  from  starlike  eyes  doth  seek 

Fuel  to  maintain  liis  fires  ; 
As  old  Time  makes  these  decay, 
So  his  flames  must  waste  away. 

But  a  smooth  and  steadfast  mind. 
Gentle  thoughts,  and  calm  desires, 

Hearts  with  equal  love  combined, 
Kindle  never-dying  fires ; — ■ 

Where  these  are  not,  I  despise 

Lovely  cheeks  or  lips  or  eyes. 


WILLIAM  BROT\T^E. 
[1590-1645.] 

THE  SIRENS'  SONG. 

Steer  hither,  steer  your  winged  pines. 

All  beaten  mariners  : 
Here  lie  undiscovered  mines, 

A  prey  to  passengers : 


Perfumes  far  sweeter  than  the  best 
That  make  the  phrenix  urn  and  nest : 

Fear  not  your  ships. 
Nor  any  to  oppose  you  save  our  lips : 

But  come  on  shore. 
Where  no  joj'  dies  till  love  has  gotten 

more. 

For  swelling  waves  our  panting  breasts, 
Where  never  storms  arise. 

Exchange  ;  and  be  awhile  our  guests : 
For  stars,  gaze  on  our  eyes. 

The  compass,  love  shall  hourly  sing, 

And,  as  lie  goes  about  the  ring, 
We  will  not  miss 

To  tell  each  point  he  nameth  with  a  kiss. 


SONG. 

Shall  I  tell  you  whom  I  love  ? 

Hearken  then  awhile  to  me, 
And  if  such  a  woman  move 

As  1  now  shall  versify. 
Be  assured,  't  is  she,  or  none. 
That  1  love,  and  love  alone. 

Nature  did  her  so  much  right, 
As  she  scorns  the  help  of  art, 

In  as  many  virtues  dight 
As  e'er  yet  embraced  a  heart. 

So  much  good  so  truly  tried. 

Some  for  less  were  deified. 

Wit  she  hath,  without  desire 

To  make  known  how  much  .she  hath ; 
And  her  anger  flames  no  higlier 

Than  may  fitly  sweeten  wrath. 
Full  of  pity  as  may  be, 
Though  perliaps  not  so  to  me. 

Reason  masters  every  sense. 

And  her  virtues  grace  her  birth : 

Lovely  as  all  excellence. 

Modest  in  her  most  of  mirth : 

Likelihood  enough  to  prove 

Only  worth  could  kindle  love. 

Such  .she  is  ;  and  if  you  know 
Such  a  one  as  I  have  sung, — 

Be  slie  brown,  or  fair,  or  so. 

That  slie  be  but  somewhile  young, — 

Be  assured,  't  is  she,  or  none, 

That  I  love,  and  love  alone. 


26 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


SIE  EGBERT  AYTON. 

[1570 -1638.] 

FAIR  AND  UNWORTHY. 

I  DO  confess  thou  'rt  smooth  and  fair, 
And  I  might  have  gone  near  to  love 
thee, 
Had  I  not  found  the  lightest  prayer 
That  lips  could  speak,  had  power  to 
move  thee : 
But  I  can  let  thee  now  alone. 
As  worthy  to  be  loved  by  none. 

I  do  confess  thou  'rt  sweet ;  yet  find 
Thee  such  an  unthrift  of  thy  sweets, 

Tliy  favors  are  hut  like  the  wind, 
That  kisses  everything  it  meets ; 

And  since  thou  canst  with  more  than  one, 

Thou  'rt  worthy  to  be  kissed  by  none. 

The  morning  rose  that  untouched  stands 
Armed  with  her  briers,  how   sweetly 
smells ! 
But  plucked  and  strained  through  ruder 
hands, 
No  more  her  sweetness  with  her  dwells, 
But  scent  and  beauty  both  are  gone, 
And  leaves  fall  from  her,  one  by  one. 

Such  fate,  erelong,  will  thee  betide. 
When     thou     hast     handled     been 
awhile,  — 

Like  sere  flowers  to  be  thrown  aside: 
And  I  will  sigh,  while  some  will  smile. 

To  see  thy  love  for  more  than  one 

Hath  brought  thee  to  be  loved  by  none. 


WILLIAM  STEODE. 
[1600- 1644.] 

MUSIC. 

0  lATLL  me,  lull  me,  charming  air ! 

My  senses  rock  with  wonder  sweet : 
Like  snow  on  wool  thy  fallings  are ; 
Soft,  like  a  spirit's,  are  thy  feet ! 
Grief  who  need  fear 
That  hath  an  ear? 
Down  let  him  lie 
And  slumbering  die, 
And  change  his  soul  for  harmony ! 


THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 

[About  1640.] 
GOOD-MORROW. 

Pack  clouds  away,  and  welcome  day, 

"With  night  we  banish  sorrow ; 
Sweet  air,  blow  soft ;  mount,  laiks,  aloft. 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 
Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind, 

Notes  from  the  lark  I  'II  borrow ; 
Bird,  pnine  thy  wing  ;  nightingale,  sing. 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 

Wake  from  thy  nest,  robin  redbreast ; 

Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow ; 
And  from  each  hill  let  music  shrill 

Give  my  fair  love  good-morrow. 
Blackbird  and  thrush  in  every  bush, 

Stare,  linnet,  and  cock-sparrow ; 
You  pretty  elves,  among  yourselves. 

Sing  my  fair  love  good-morrow. 


SEARCH  AFTER  GOD. 

I  SOUGHT  thee  round  about,  0  thou  my  ' 
God! 
In  thine  abode. 
I  said  unto  the  earth,  "Speak,  art  thou 
he?" 
She  answered  me, 
"I  am  not."     1  inijuired  of  creatures  all, 

In  general. 
Contained  tlierein.     They  with  one  voice 

proclaim 
That  none  amongst  them  challenged  such 
a  name. 

I  asked  the  seas  and  all  the  deeps  below, 

My  God  to  know ; 
I  asked  the  reptiles  and  whatever  is 

In  the  abyss,  — 
Even  from  the  shrimp  to  the  leviathan 

Inquiry  ran ; 
But  in  those  deserts  which  no  line  can 

sound, 
The  God  I  sought  for  was  not  to  be  found. 

I  asked  the  air  if  that  were  he  !  but  lo  ! 

It  told  me  "  No." 
I  fi"om  the  towering  eagle  to  the  wren 

Demanded  then 
If  any  featliered  fowl  'mongst  them  were 
such  ; 

But  they  all,  nnich 


HENRY  KING. 


27 


Ofiended  with  my  qupstioii,  in  full  choir, 
Answered,  "To  tiiul  thy  God  thou  must 
look  higher." 

I  asked  the  heavens,   sun,   moon,   and 
stars ;  but  they 
Said,  "  We  obey 
The  God  thou  seekest."     I  asked  what 
eye  or  ear 
Could  see  or  hear, — 
What  in  the  world  I  might  descry  or 
know 
Above,  below; 
With  an  unanimous  voice,  all  these  things 

said, 
"  We  are  not  God,  but  we  by  him  were 
made." 

I  asked  the  world's  great  universal  mass 

If  that  God  was ; 
Which  with  a  mighty  and  strong  voice 
replied. 
As  stupefied,  — 
"  I  am  not  he,  0  man  !  for  know  that  I 

By  him  on  high 
Was  fashioned   first  of  nothing ;    thus 

instated 
And  swayed  by  him   by  whom  I  was 
-created." 

I  sought  the  court ;  but  smooth-tongued 
flattery  there 
Deceived  each  ear ; 
In  the  thronged  city  there  was  selling, 
buying. 
Swearing,  and  lying ; 
1'  the  country,  craft  in  simpleness  ar- 
rayed, 
And  then  I  said,  — - 
"  Vain  is  my  search,  although  my  pains 

be  great ; 
Where  my  God  is  there  can  be  no  deceit." 

A  scrutiny  within  myself  I  then 

Even  thus  began : 
"  0  man,  what  art  thou  ? "     What  more 
could  I  say 

Than  dust  and  clay,  — 
Frail,  mortal,  fading,  a  mere  puff,  a  blast. 

That  cannot  last ; 
Enthroned  to-day,  to-morrow  in  an  urn. 
Formed  from  that  earth  to  which  I  must 
return  ? 

I  asked  myself  what  this  great  God  might 
be 
That  fashioned  me. 


I   answered :  The  all-potent,    sole,  im- 
mense, 
Surpassing  sense ; 
Unspeakable,  inscrutable,  eternal. 

Lord  over  all ; 
The  only  terrible,  strong,  just,  and  true. 
Who  hath  no  end,   and   no  beginning 
knew. 

He  is  the  well  of  life,  for  he  doth  give 

To  all  that  live 
Both  breath  and  being ;  he  is  the  Creator 

Both  of  the  water. 
Earth,  air,  and  fire.     Of  all  things  that 
subsist 
He  hath  the  list,  — 
Of  all  the  heavenly  host,  or  what  earth 

claims. 
He  keejjs  the  scroll,  and  calls  them  by 
their  names. 

And  now,  my  God,  by  thine  illumining 
grace,  _ 
Thy  glorious  face 
(So  far  forth  as  it  may  discovered  be) 

Methinks  I  see ; 
And  though  invisible  and  infinite. 

To  human  sight 
Thou,  in  thy  mercy,  justice,  truth,  ap- 

pearest. 
In  which,  to  our  weak  sense,  thou  comest 
nearest. 

0,  make  us  apt  to  seek  and  quick  to  find. 

Thou,  God,  most  kind  ! 
Give  us  love,  hope,  and  fiiith,  in  thee  to 
trust, 
Thou,  God,  most  just! 
Remit  all  our  offences,  we  entreat. 
Most  good  !  most  great ! 
Grant  that  our  willing,  though  unworthy 

quest 
May,    through    thy    grace,    admit    us 
'mongst  the  blest. 


HENRY  KINa. 


[1591- 1669.] 


SIC  VITA. 


Like  to  the  falling  of  a  star, 
Or  as  the  flights  of  eagles  are ; 
Or  like  the  fresh  spring's  gaudy  hue. 
Or  silver  drops  of  morning  dew  ] 


28 


SONGS    OF   TIIEEE   CENTURIES. 


Or  like  a  wind  that  chafes  the  flood, 
Or  bubbles  which  on  water  stood : 
Even  such  is  man,  whose  borrowed  light 
Is  straight  called  in,  and  paid  to-night. 
The  wind  blows  out,  the  bubble  dies ; 
The  spring  entombed  in  autumn  lies ; 
The  dew  dries  u]),  the  star  is  shot ; 
The  flight  is  past,  —  and  man  forgot. 


ELEGY. 

Slekp  on,  my  love,  in  thy  cold  bed, 

Never  to  be  disquitted ! 

My  last  good  night !    Thou  wilt  not  wake 

Till  I  thy  fate  shall  overtake; 

Till  age,  or  grief,  or  sickness  must 

Marry  my  body  to  that  dust 

It  so  much  loves,  and  fill  the  room 

My  heart  keeps  empty  in  thy  tomb. 

Stay  for  me  there  !    I  will  not  fail 
To  meet  thee  in  that  hollow  vale. 
And  think  not  much  of  m.y  delay: 
I  am  already  on  the  way. 
And  follow  thee  with  all  the  speed 
Desire  can  make,  or  sorrow  breed. 
Each  minute  is  a  short  degree, 
And  every  hour  a  step  towards  thee. 
At  night,  when  I  betake  to  rest. 
Next  morn  I  rise  nearer  my  west 
Of  life,  almost  by  eight  hours'  sail, 
Tlian  when  sleep  breathed  his  drowsy  gale. 
Thus  from  the  sun  my  vessel  steers. 
And  my  day's  compass  downward  bears : 
Nor  ]al)or  I  to  stem  the  tide 
Through  which  to  thee  I  swiftly  glide. 

'T  is  true,  with  shame  and  gi'ief  I  yield. 

Thou,  like  the  van,  first  took'st  the  field, 

And  gotten  hast  the  victory, 

In  thus  adventuring  to  die 

Before  me,  whose  more  years  might  crave 

A  just  precedence  in  the  gi-ave. 

But  hark  !  my  pulse,  like  a  soft  drum. 

Beats  my  approach,  tells  thee  I  come : 

And  slow  howe'er  my  marches  be, 

I  shall  at  last  sit  down  by  thee. 

The  thought  of  this  bids  me  go  on, 

AtkI  wait  my  dissolution 

With  hope  and  comfort.     Dear,  forgive 

The  crime,  —  I  am  content  to  live 

I)ivide(l,  with  but  half  a  heart, 

Till  we  shall  meet,  and  never  pai-t. 


MAEQUIS  OF  MONTROSE. 

[i6i2-  1650.] 
I'LL  NEVER  LOVE  THEE  MORE. 

My  dear  and  only  love,  I  pray 

That  little  world  of  thee 
Be  governed  by  no  other  sway 

But  purest  monarchy : 
For  if  confusion  have  a  part, 

Which  virtuous  souls  abhor, 
I  '11  call  a  synod  in  my  heart, 

And  never  love  thee  more. 

As  Alexander  I  will  reign. 

And  I  will  reign  alone ; 
My  thoughts  did  evermore  disdain 

A  rival  on  my  throne. 
He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  his  deserts  are  small. 
Who  dares  not  put  it  to  the  touch, 

To  gain  or  lose  it  all. 


•JAMES  SHIRLEY. 
[1596- 1666.] 

DEATH  THE  LEVELLER. 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things; 
There  is  no  armor  against  fate ; 
Death  lays  his  icy  hand  on  kings : 
Sceptre  and  crown 
Must  tumble  down. 
And  in  the  dust  be  ei|ual  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 
And  plant   fresh   laurels  where  they 
kill; 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  }aeld ; 
They  tame  but  one  another  still : 
Early  or  late 
They  stoop  to  fate, 
Andmustgive  up  their  murmuring  breath 
When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow ; 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds ; 
Upon  Death's  pur])le  altar  now 

See  where  the  victor-victim  bleeds : 


SIR  THOMAS   BROWNE. — RICHARD    CRASHAW. 


29 


Your  heads  must  come 

To  the  cold  tomb  ; 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  their  dust. 


EDWAED  IIERBEriT,  (EAEL  OF 
CHERBUM.) 

[1S81-1648.] 

CELINDA. 

"Walking  thus  towards  a  pleasant  grove, 

Which  did,  it  seemed,  in  new  delight 

The  pleasures  of  the  time  unite 

To  give  a  triumph  to  their  love,  — 

They  stayed  at  last,  and  on  the  gi-ass 

Reposed  so  as  o'er  his  breast 

She  bowed  her  gracious  head  to  rest, 

Such  a  weight  as  no  burden  was. 

Long  their  fixed  eyes  to  heaven  bent, 

Unchanged  they  did  never  move. 

As  if  so  great  and  pure  a  love 

No  glass  but  it  could  represent. 

"  These  eyes  again  thine  eyes  shall  see, 

Thy  hands  again  these  hands  infold. 

And  all  chaste  pleasures  can  be  told, 

Sliall  with  us  everlasting  be. 

Let  theu  no  doubt,  Celinda,  touch, 

Miu'h  less  your  fairest  mind  invade; 

Were  not  our  souls  immortal  made. 

Our  ec^ual  loves  can  make  them  such." 


SIR  THOMAS  BRO^V^E. 

[1605-1682.] 

EVENING  HYMN. 

The  night  is  come ;  like  to  the  day, 
Depart  not  thou,  great  God,  away. 
Let  not  my  sins,  black  as  the  night. 
Eclipse  the  lustre  of  thy  light. 
Keej)  in  my  horizon  :  for  to  me 
The  sun  makes  not  the  day,  but  thee. 
Thou  whose  nature  cannot  sleep. 
On  my  temples  sentry  keep : 
Guard  me  'gainst  those  watchful  foes. 
Whose  eyes  are  open  while  mine  close. 
Let  no  dreams  my  head  infest 
But  such  as  Jacob's  temples  blest. 


Wliilst  I  do  rest,  my  soul  advance ; 

Make  my  sleeji  a  holy  trance  : 

That  I  may,  my  rest  being  wrought, 

Awake  into  some  holy  thought. 

And  with  as  active  vigor  run 

My  course,  as  doth  the  nimble  sun. 

Sleep  is  a  death ;  0,  make  me  try. 

By  sleeping,  what  it  is  to  die : 

And  as  gently  lay  my  head 

On  my  gi-ave  as  now  my  bed. 

Howe'er  I  rest,  great  God,  let  me 

Awake  again  at  last  with  thee. 

And  thus  assured,  behold  I  lie 

Securely,  or  to  wake  or  die. 

These  are  my  drowsy  days ;  in  vain 

I  do  now  wake  to  sleep  again ; 

0,  come  that  hour  when  I  shall  never 

Sleep  thus  again,  but  wake  forever. 


RICHARD  CRASHAW. 

[1605- 1650.] 

WISHES. 

Whoe'er  she  be. 

That  not  impossible  She 

That  shall  command  my  heart  and  me ; 

Where'er  she  lie. 

Locked  up  from  mortal  eye 

In  shady  leaves  of  destiny, 

Till  that  ripe  birth 

Of  studied  Fate  stand  forth. 

And  teach  her  fair  steps  to  our  earth ; 

Till  that  divine 

Idea  take  a  shrine 

Of  crystal  flesh,  through  which  to  shine : 

—  Meet  you  her,  my  Wishes, 

Bespeak  her  to  my  blisses. 

And  be  ye  called,  my  absent  kisses. 

I  wish  her  beauty 

That  owes  not  all  its  duty 

To  gaudy  tire,  or  glist'ring  shoe-tie : 

Something  more  than 
Tatfeta  or  tissue  can. 
Or  rampant  feather,  or  rich  fan. 


30 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES, 


A  face  that 's  best 

By  its  own  beauty  drest, 

And  cau  alone  command  the  rest : 

A  face  made  up 

Out  of  no  other  shop 

Than  what  Nature's  white  hand  sets  ope. 

Sydneian  showers 

Of  sweet  discourse,  whose  powers 

Can  crown  old  Winter's  head  with  flow- 


"Whate'er  delight 

Can  make  day's  forehead  bright 

Or  give  down  to  the  wings  of  night. 

Soft  silken  hours, 

Open  suns,  shady  bowers ; 

'Bove  all,  nothing  within  that  lowers. 

Days,  that  need  borrow 

No  part  of  their  good  morrow 

From  a  fore-spent  night  of  sorrow : 

Days,  that  in  spite 

Of  darkness,  by  the  light 

Of  a  clear  mind  are  day  all  night. 

Life,  that  dares  send 
A  challenge  to  his  end ; 
And   when  it  comes,  says,   "Welcome, 
friend." 

I  wish  her  store 

Of  worth  may  leave  her  poor 

Of  wishes;  and  I  wish  —  no  more. 

—  Now,  if  Time  knows 

That  Her,  whose  radiant  brows 

Weave  them  a  garland  of  my  vows ; 

Her  that  dares  be 

What  these  lines  wish  to  see: 

I  seek  no  further,  it  is  She. 

'T  is  She,  and  here 

Lo  !  I  unclothe  and  clear 

My  wishes'  cloudy  character. 

Such  worth  as  this  is 
Shall  fix  my  flying  wishes, 
And  determine  them  to  kisses. 


L(!t  her  full  glory. 

My  fancies,  fly  before  ye  ; 


'  fancies,  fly  before  ye  ; 

ye  my  fictions:  —  but  her  story. 


SIR  RICHAED  LOVELACE. 

[1618-1638.] 

TO  ALTHEA. 

When  love  with  unconfined  wings 

Hovers  within  my  gates. 
And  my  divine  Althea  biings 

To  whis])er  at  my  grates  ; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair, 

And  fettered  to  her  eye, 
The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  a  hermitage : 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love, 

And  in  my  soul  am  free,  — 
Angels  alone  that  soar  above 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 


TO  LUCASTA. 

Tei.l  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind, 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast,  and  quiet  mind. 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True :  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase. 

The  first  foe  in  the  field ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such, 

As  you  too  shall  adore ; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  miich, 

Loved  I  not  honor  more. 


ROBERT  HERRICK. 

TO  DAFFODILS. 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 
You  haste  away  so  soon  : 

As  yet  the  early-rising  sun 
Has  not  attained  his  noon : 
Stay,  stay, 


GEORGE  HERBERT. 


Until  the  hasting  day 

Has  run 
But  to  the  even  song ; 
And,  having  prayed  together,  we 
Will  go  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay  as  you, 

We  have  as  short  a  spring ; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay. 
As  you,  or  anything. 
We  die, 
As  joxiT  hours  do,  and  dry 

Away 
Like  to  the  summer's  rain, 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew, 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 


TO  BLOSSOMS. 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree, 

Why  do  ye  fall  so  fast  ? 

Your  date  is  not  so  past, 
But  you  may  stay  yet  here  awhile, 

To  blush  and  gently  smile, 
And  go  at  last. 

What !  were  ye  born  to  be 

An  hour  or  half's  delight. 
And  so  to  bid  good-night  ? 

'T  was  pity  Nature  brought  ye  forth 
Merely  to  siiow  your  worth. 
And  lose  you  quite. 

But  you  are  lovely  leaves,  where  we 
May  read  how  soon  things  Irave 
Their  end,  thouglr  ne'er  so  brave ; 

And  after  they  have  shown  their  pride, 

Like  you,  awhile,  they  glide 

Into  the  gi-ave. 


TO  KEEP  A  TRUE  LENT. 

Is  this  a  fast,  to  keep 
The  larder  lean, 
And  clean 
From  fat  of  veals  and  sheep  ? 

Is  it  to  quit  the  dish 

Of  flesh,  yet  still 
To  fill 
The  platter  high  with  fish  ? 

Is  it  to  fast  an  hour. 
Or  rag'd  to  go, 
Or  show 
A  do\vncast  look,  and  sour  ? 


No :  't  is  a  fast  to  dole 

Thy  sheaf  of  wheat, 
And  meat, 
Unto  the  hungry  soul. 

It  is  to  fast  from  strife, 
From  old  debate 
And  hate ; 
To  circumcise  thy  life. 

To  show  a  heart  grief-rent ; 
To  starve  thy  sin. 
Not  bin : 
And  that 's  to  keep  thy  Lent. 


GEOEGE  HERBERT. 
[1593 -1633.] 

VIRTUE. 

Sweet  Day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright. 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky. 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night ; 
For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  Rose,  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave, 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye. 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave. 

And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  Spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie. 
My  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 
And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 
Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives ; 
But  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal. 
Then  chiefly  lives. 


THE  FLOWER. 

Hov?  fresh,  0  Lord,  how  sweet  and 
clean 
Are  thy  returns !  e'en  as  the  flowers  in 
spring ; 
To  which,  besides  their  own  demesne. 
The  late-past  frosts  tributes  of  pleasure 
bring. 
Grief  melts  away 
Like  snow  in  May, 
As  if  there  were  no  such  cold  thing. 


32 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Who  Avonld  have  thought  my  shriv- 
elled heart 
Could  have  recovered  greenness  ?   It  was 
gone 
Quite  under  ground ;  as  flowers  depart 
To  see  their  mother-root,  when  they  have 
blown  ; 
Where  they  together, 
All  the  hard  weather, 
Dead  to  the  world,  keep  house  un- 
known. 

These  are  thy  Avonders,  Lord  of  power. 
Killing  and  quickening,  bringing  down 
to  hell 
And  up  to  heaven  in  an  hour ; 
Making  a  chiming  of  a  passing  bell. 
We  say  amiss. 
This  or  that  is : 
Thy  word  is  all,  if  we  could  spell. 

0  that  I  once  past  changing  were. 
Fast  in  thy  Paradise,  where  no  llower 

can  wither ! 
Many  a  spring  I  shoot  up  fair 
Offering  at  heaven,  growing  and  groan- 
ing thither ; 
Nor  doth  my  flower 
Want  a  spring-shower. 
My  sins  and  I  joining  together. 

But  while  I  grow  in  a  straight  line. 
Still  upwards   bent,  as  if  heaven  were 
mine  own, 
Thy  anger  comes,  and  I  decline : 
What  frost  to  that  ?  what  pole  is  not  the 
zone 
Where  all  things  burn, 
When  thou  dost  turn. 
And  the  least  frown  of  thine  is  shown  ? 

And  now  in  age  I  bud  again. 
After  so  many  deaths  I  live  and  write ; 

1  once  more  smell  the  dew  and  rain. 
And  relish  versing  :  0  my  only  Light, 

It  cannot  be 
That  I  am  he 
On  whom  thy  tempests  fell  all  night. 

These  are  thy  wonders,  Lord  of  love, 
To  make  us  see  we  are  but  flowers  that 
glide ; 
Which  when  we  once  can  find  and 
prove. 
Thou  hast  a  garden  for  us,  where  to  bide. 
Wlio  would  be  more. 
Swelling  tlirough  store, 
Forfeit  their  Paradise  by  their  pride. 


REST. 

When  God  at  first  made  man. 
Having  a  glass  of  blessings  standing  by, 
"Let us,"  said  he,  "pour  on  him  all  we 

can : 
Let  the  world's  riches,  which  dispersed  lie, 

Contract  into  a  span." 

So  strength  first  made  a  way ; 
Then  beauty  flowed;  then  wisdom,  honor, 

])leasure : 
AVhen  almost  all  was  out,  God  made  a  stay, 
Perceiving  that  alone,  of  all  his  treasure. 

Rest  in  the  bottom  lay. 

"  For  if  I  should,"  said  he, 
"  Bestow  this  jewel  also  on  mj'  creature, 
He  w'ould  adore  my  gifts  instead  of  me, 
And  rest  in  nature,  not  the  G  od  of  nature ; 

So  both  should  losers  be. 

"Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest. 
But  keep  them  with  repining  restlessness : 
Let  him  be  rich  and  weary,  that  at  least, 
If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weariness 

May  toss  him  to  my  breast." 


HENEY  VAUGHAN. 

[1614-1695.] 

THE  BIRD. 

Hither  thou  com'st.     The  busy  wind 

all  night 
Blew  through   thy  lodging,  where  thy 

own  warm  wing 
Thy  pillow  was.     Many  a  sullen  storm. 
For  wliich  coarse  man  seems  much  the 
fitter  born. 
Rained  on  thy  bed 
And  harmless  head ; 

And  now,  as  fresh  and  cheerful  as  the 

light. 
Thy  little  heart  in  early  hymns  doth  sing 
Unto  that  Providence  whose  unseen  arm 
Curbed  them,  and  clothed  thee  well  and 

warm. 
All  things  that  be  praise  Him ;  and  had 
Their  lesson   taught    them  when  first 

made. 

So  hills  and  valleys  into  singing  break ; 
And  though   ])oor   stones  have  neither 
speech  nor  tongue, 


GEORGE  WITHER. 


While  active  winds  and  streams  both,  nm 

and  speak, 
Yet  stones  are  deep  in  admiration. 
Thus  praise  and  prayer  here  beneath  the 

stm 
Make  lesser  mornings,  when  the  great 

are  done. 

For  each  inclosed  spirit  is  a  star 

Iiilightning  his  own  little  sphere, 
W^hose  light,  though  fetcht  and  borrowed 
from  far. 
Both  mornings  makes   and  evenings 
there. 

But  as  these  birds  of  light  make  a  land 

Chirping  their  solemn  matins  on  each 

tree ; 
So  in  the  shades  of  night  some  dark 

fowls  be, 
AVhose  heavy  notes  make  all  that  hear 

them  sad. 

The  turtle  then  in  palm-trees  mourns, 
While  owls  and  satyrs  howl ; 

The  pleasant  land  to  brimstone  turns. 
And  all  her  streams  grow  foul. 

Brightness  and  mirth,  and  love  and  faith, 

all  fly. 
Till  the  day-spring  breaks  forth  again 

from  hitth. 


THEY  ARE  ALL  GONE. 

TiiEY  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light, 

And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here  ! 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright. 
And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 

Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove. 
Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  this  hill 
is  drest 
After  the  sun's  remove. 

I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory. 

Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days  ; 
My  days,  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and 
hoary. 
Mere  glimmering  and  decays. 

0  holy  hope !  and  high  humility,  — 
High  as  the  heavens  above ! 
3 


These   are   your  walks,  and  you  have 
showed  them  me 
To  kindle  my  cold  love. 

Dear,  beauteous  death,  — the  jewel  of  the 

just,— 

Shining  nowhere  but  in  the  dark  ! 

What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust. 

Could  man  outlook  that  mark  ! 

He  that  hath  found  some  fledged  bird's 
nest  may  know. 
At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown  ; 
But  what  fair  dell  or  grove  he  sings  in 
now, 
That  is  to  him  unknown. 

And  yet,   as   angels  in   some   brighter 
dreams 
Call  to  the  soul  when  man  doth  sleep, 
So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our 
wonted  themes. 
And  into  glory  peep. 

If  a  star  were  confined  into  a  tomb, 
Her  captive  flames  must  needs  burn 
there ; 
But  when  the  hand  that  lockt  her  up 
gives  room. 
She  '11  shine  through  all  the  sphere. 

O  Father  of  eternal  life,  and  all 

Created  glories  under  thee  ! 
Resume  thv  spirit  from   this  world  of 
thrail 
Into  true  liberty ! 

Either  disperse  these  mists,  which  blot 
and  fill 
My  perspective  still  as  they  pass ; 
Or  else  remove  me  hence  unto  that  hill 
Where  I  shall  need  no  glass. 


GEORGE  WITHER. 

[158S-1667.] 

FOR  ONE  THAT  HEARS  HIMSELF 
MUCH  PRAISED. 

My  sins  and  follies.  Lord  !  by  thee 

From  others  hidden  are. 
That  such  good  words  are  spoke  of  me. 

As  now  and  then  I  hear; 


34 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


\ 


For  sure  if  others  knew  me  such, 

Such  as  myself  1  know, 
I  should  have  been  dispraised  as  much 

As  I  am  praised  now. 

The  praise,  therefore,  which  I  have  heard, 

Delights  not  so  my  mind, 
As  tliose  things  make  my  heart  afeard, 

Which  in  myself  I  find: 
And  1  liad  rather  to  be  blamed. 

So  I  were  blameless  made. 
Than  for  nmch  virtue  to  be  famed, 

When  I  no  virtues  had. 

Though  slanders  to  an  innocent 

Sometimes  do  bitter  grow. 
Their  bitterness  procures  content, 

If  clear  himself  he  know. 
And  when  a  virtuous  man  hath  erred. 

If  praised  himself  he  hear, 
It  makes  him  grieve,  and  more  afeard. 

Than  if  he  slandered  were. 

Lord  !  therefore  make  my  heart  iipright, 

Whate'er  my  deeds  do  seem; 
And  righteous  rather  in  thy  sight. 

Than  in  the  world's  esteem. 
And  if  aught  good  appear  to  be 

In  any  act  of  mine, 
Let  thankfulness  be  found  in  me, 

And  aU  the  praise  be  thine. 


COMPANIONSHIP  OF  THE  MUSE. 

She  doth  tell  me  where  to  borrow 
Comfort  in  the  midst  of  sorrow ; 
Makes  the  desolatest  place 
To  her  presence  be  a  grace. 
And  the  blackest  discontents 
Be  her  fairest  ornaments. 
In  my  former  days  of  bliss. 
Her  divine  skill  "taught  me  this, 
That  from  everything  I  saw 
I  could  some  invention  draw. 
And  raise  pleasure  to  her  height, 
Through  the  meanest  object's  sight, 
By  the  murmur  of  a  spring, 
Or  the  least  bough's  rustleing. 
By  a  daisy,  whose  leaves  spread, 
Shut  when  Titan  goes  to  bed ; 
Or  a  shady  bush  or  tree. 
She  could  moie  infuse  in  me. 
Than  all  nature's  beauties  can 
In  some  other  wiser  man. 


By  her  help  I  also  now 

Make  this  churlish  place  allow 

Some   things   that   may   sweeten    glad- 
ness. 

In  the  very  gall  of  sadness. 

The  dull  loneness,  the  black  shade, 

That  these  hanging  vaults  have  made ; 

The  strange  nmsic  of  the  waves. 

Beating  on  these  hollow  caves ; 

I  This  black  den  which  rocks  emboss, 

Overgrown  with  eldest  moss ; 

The  rude  portals  that  give  light 

More  to  terror  than  delight; 

This  my  chamber  of  neglect, 

Walled  about  with  disrespect, — 

From  all  these,  and  this  dull  air, 

A  fit  object  for  despair, 

She  hath  taught  me  by  her  might 

To  draw  comfort  and  delight. 

Therefore,  thou  best  earthly  bliss, 

I  will  cherish  thee  for  this. 

Poesy,  thou  sweet'st  content 

That  e'er  heaven  to  mortals  lent : 

Though  they  as  a  trifle  leave  thee, 

Whose  dull  thoughts   cannot   conceive 

thee ; 
Though  thou  be  to  them  a  scorn. 
That  to  naiTght  but  earth  are  born,  — 
Let  my  life  no  longer  be 
Than  I  am  in  love  with  thee ! 


ANDREW  MARVELL. 

[1620-1678.] 

THOUGHTS  IN  A  GARDEN. 

HoAV  vainly  men  themselves  amaze. 
To  win  the  palm,  the  oak,  or  bays  : 
And  their  incessant  labors  see 
Crowned    from    some     single    herb    or 

tree,  .,11 

Whose  short  and  narrow-verged  shade 
Does  prudently  their  toils  upbraid ; 
While   all    the    flowers    and   trees    do 

close, 
To  weave  the  garlands  of  repose. 

Fair  Quiet,  have  I  found  thee  here, 
And  Innocence,  thy  sister  dear? 
Mistaken  long,  I  sought  you  then 
In  busy  comjianies  of  men. 
Your  sacred  jdants,  if  here  below, 
Only  among  these  plants  will  grow. 


JOHN   MILTON. 


35 


Society  is  all  but  rude 
To  this  delicious  solitude. 

No  white  nor  red  was  ever  seen 
So  amorous  as  this  lovely  green. 
Fond  lovers,  cruel  as  their  flame, 
Cut  in  these  trees  their  mistress'  name. 
Little,  alas,  they  know  or  heed, 
How  far  these  beauties  her  exceed ! 
Fair  trees !  where'er  your  barks  I  wound, 
No  name  shall  but  your  own  be  found. 

"What  wondrous  life  is  this  I  lead ! 
Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head. 
The  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 
Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine. 
The  nectarine,  and  curious  ])each. 
Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach. 
Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass, 
Insnared  with  flowers,  I  fall  on  grass. 
Meanwhile  the  mind  from  pleasure  less 
Withdraws  into  its  happiness,  — 
The  mind,  that  ocean  where  each  kind 
Does  straight  its  own  resemblance  find ; 
Yet  it  creates  transcending  these, 
Far  other  worlds  and  other  seas ; 
Annihilating  all  that 's  made 
To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade. 
Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot. 
Or  at  some  fruit-tree's  mossy  root, 
Casting  tlie  body's  vest  aside. 
My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  glide ; 
There,  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings. 
Then  whets  and  claps  its  silver  wings, 
And,  till  prepared  for  longer  flight. 
Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light. 

Such  was  the  happy  garden  state, 
While    man    there    walked  without    a 

mate: 
After  a  place  so  pure  and  sweet, 
What  other  help  could  yet  be  meet ! 
But  't  was  beyond  a  mortal's  share 
To  wander  solitary  there : 
Two  paradises  are  in  one, 
To  live  in  paradise  alone. 

How  well  the  skilful  gardener  drew 
Of  flowers  and  herbs  this  dial  new ! 
Where,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 
Does  thi'ough  a  fragrant  zodiac  run  : 
And,  as  it  works,  the  industrious  bee 
Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we. 
How  could  such  sweet   and  wholesome 

hours 
Be  reckoned,  but  with  herbs  and  flow- 
ers? 


THE  BERMUDAS. 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 
In  the  ocean's  bosom  unespied, 
From  a  small  boat  that  rowed  along. 
The  listening  winds  received  this  song  : 
"  What  should  we  do  but  sijig  His  praise 
That  led  us  through  the  watery  ma^e 
Where  he  the  huge  sea  monsters  racks, 
That  lift  the  deep  upon  their  backs, 
Unto  an  isle  so  long  unknown. 
And  yet  for  kinder  than  our  own  ? 
He  lands  us  on  a  grassy  stage. 
Safe  Irom  the  stoiins  and  prelates'  rage. 
He  gave  us  this  eternal  spring 
Which  here  enamels  everything. 
And  sends  the  fowls  to  us  in  care. 
On  daily  visits  through  the  air. 
He  hangs  in  shades  the  orange  bright. 
Like  golden  lamps  in  a  green  night, 
And  does  in  the  pomegranates  close 
Jewels  more  rich  than  Ormus  shows. 
He  makes  the  figs  our  mouths  to  meet, 
And  throws  the  melons  at  our  feet. 
With  apples,  plants  of  such  a  price, 
No  tree  could  ever  bear  them  twice. 
With  cedars,  chosen  by  his  hand, 
From  Lebanon  he  stores  the  land ; 
And  makes  the  hollow  seas  that  roar. 
Proclaim  the  amljcrgris  on  shore. 
He  cast  (of  which  we  rather  boast) 
The  gospel's  pearl  upon  our  coast ; 
And  in  these  rocks  for  us  did  frame 
A  temple  where  to  sound  his  name. 
0,  let  our  voice  his  praise  exalt. 
Till  it  arrive  at  heaven's  vault, 
Which  then  perhaps  rebounding  may 
Echo  beyond  the  Mexic  bay." 

Thus  sang  they  in  the  English  boat 
A  holy  and  a  cheerful  note ; 
And  all  the  way,  to  guide  their  chime. 
With  falling  oars  they  kept  the  time. 


JOHN  MILTOK 

[1608 -1674.] 

HYMN  ON  THE  NATIVITY. 

It  was  the  winter  -wild. 
While  the  heaven-born  child 
All  meanly  wrapt  in  the  rude  manger 
lies; 
Nature,  in  awe  of  him. 


36 


SONGS   OF   THREE    CENTUMES. 


Had  (loffed  her  gaudy  trim, 

Witli  her  great  JMaster  so  to  sympathize : 
It  was  no  season  then  for  her 
To  wanton  with  the  sun,  her  histy  para- 
mour. 

Only  with  speeches  fair 

She  wooes  the  gentle  air. 

To  hide  her  guilty  front  with  innocent 
snow ; 

A  nd  on  her  naked  shame, 

Tollute  with  sinful  hlame. 

The  saintly  veil  of  maiden-white  to 
throw ; 

Confounded,  that  her  Maker's  eyes 

Should  look  so  near  upon  her  foul  deform- 
ities. 

But  he,  her  fears  to  cease, 

Sent  down  the  meek-eyed  Peace  : 

She,  crown(^d  with  olive  green,  came 

softly  sliding 
Down  through  the  turning  sphere. 
His  ready  harbinger. 

With  tuitle  wing  the  amorous  clouds 

dividing; 
And,  waving  wide  her  myrtle  wand. 
She  strikes  a  universal  peace  through  sea 

and  land. 

No  war  or  battle's  sound 

Was  heard  the  world  around  : 

The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high  up- 
hung  ; 

The  hooked  chariot  stood 

Unstained  with  hostile  blood; 

The  trumpet  spake  not  to  the  armed 
throng ; 

And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye. 

As  if  they  surely  kncAV  their  sovereign 
lord  was  by. 

But  peaceful  was  the  night. 
Wherein  the  Prince  of  Light 

His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth  began : 
The  winds,  with  wonder  whist, 
Smoothly  the  waters  kissed, 

AVhispering  new  joys  to  the  mild  ocean. 
Who  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave, 
AVhile  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on  the 
charmed  wave. 

The  stars,  with  deep  amaze. 
Stand  fixed  in  steadfast  gaze, 

Bending  one  way  their  precious  influ- 
ence ; 
And  will  not  take  their  llight, 


J'or  all  the  morning  light. 

Or   Lucifer    had   often   warned    them 

thence ; 
But  in  their  glimmering  orbs  did  glow, 
Until  their  Lord  himself  bespake,  and  bid 

them  go. 

And,  though  the  shady  gloom 
Had  given  day  her  room, 

The  sun  himself  withheld  his  wonted 
speed. 
And  hid  his  head  for  shame, 
As  his  inferior  Hanie 

The   new-enlightened  world  no  more 
should  need ; 
He  saw  a  greater  sun  appear 
Than  his  bright  throne,  or  burning  axle- 
tree,  could  bear. 

The  shepherds  on  the  lawn, 
Or  ere  the  point  of  dawn. 

Sat  simply  chatting  in  a  rustic  row ; 
Full  little  thought  they  then 
That  the  mighty  Pan 

Was  kindly  come  to  live  with  them  be- 
low ; 
Perhaps  their  loves,  or  else  their  sheep, 
Was  all  that  did  their  silly  thoughts  so 
busy  keep. 

When  such  music  sweet 

Their  hearts  and  ears  did  greet, 

As  never  was  by  mortal  lingers  strook, 
Divinely  warbled  voice 
Answering  the  stringed  noise. 

As  all  their  souls  in  blissful  rapture 
took : 
The  air,  such  pleasure  loath  to  lose, 
With  thousand  echoes  still  prolongs  each 
heavenly  close. 

Nature,  that  heard  such  sound, 
Beneath  the  hollow  round 
Of    Cynthia's   seat,   the    airy  region 
thrilling. 
Now  was  almost  won, 
To  think  her  part  was  done. 

And  that  her  reign  had  here  its  last 
fulfilling; 
She  knew  such  liarmony  alone 
Could  hold  all  Iieaveu  and  earth  in  happier 
union. 

At  last  surrounds  their  sight 
A  globe  of  cii'cular  light, 

That  with  long  beams  the  shame-faced 
night  arrayed ; 
The  helmed  cherubim, 


JOHN   MILTON, 


37 


x\ml  sworded  seraphim. 

Are  seen  iu  glittering  ranks  with  wings 

disphu'ed, 
Harping  iu  loud  and  solemn  quire, 
With   unexpressive  notes,   to   Heaven's 

new-born  heir. 

Sucli  music  as  't  is  said 
Before  was  never  made, 

But  when  of  old  the  sons  of  morning 

sung, 
While  the  Creator  great 
His  constellations  set, 

And  the  well-balanced  world  on  hinges 

hung. 
And  cast  the  dark  foundations  deep. 
And  bid  the  weltering  waves  their  oozy 

channel  keep. 

Ring  out,  ye  cr3''stal  spheres, 
Once  bless  our  hiunan  ears, 

If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so ; 
And  let  your  silver  chime 
Move  in  melodious  time  ; 

And  let  the  bass  of  Heaven's  deep  organ 
blow ; 
And,  witli  your  ninefold  harmony, 
Make  up  full  concert  to  the  angelic  sym- 
phony. 

For,  if  such  holy  song 
Enwrap  our  fancy  long. 

Time  will  run  back,  and  fetch  the  age 

of  gold ; 
And  speckled  Vanity 
Will  sicken  soon  and  die, 
And  leprous  Sin  will  melt  from  earthly 

mould ; 
And  Hell  itself  will  pass  away, 
And  leave  her  dolorous  mansions  to  the 

peering  day. 

Yea,  Truth  and  Justice  then 
Will  down  return  to  men, 

Orbed  in  a  rainbow ;  and,  like  glories 

wearing, 
Mercy  will  sit  between. 
Throned  in  celestial  sheen. 

With  radiant  feet  the  tissued  clouds 

down  steering ; 
And  Heaven,  as  at  some  festival, 
Will  open  wide  the  gates  of  her  high 

palace  hall. 

But  wisest  Fate  says  no, 
This  must  not  yet  be  so ; 

The  babe  yet  lies  in  smiling  infancy, 
That  on  the  bitter  cross 


Must  redeem  our  loss, 

So  both  himself  and  us  to  glorify : 
Yet  first,  to  those  yehained  in  sleep, 
The  wakeful  trump  of  doom  must  thunder 
through  the  deep, 

With  such  a  horrid  clang 
As  on  Mount  Sinai  rang. 

While   the  red   fii-e  and  smouldering 

clouds  outbrake ; 
The  aged  earth  aghast, 
With  terror  of  that  blast, 
Shall   from  the  surface  to  the  centre 

shake ; 
^Vllen,  at  the  world's  last  session. 
The  dreadful  Judge  iu  middle  air  shall 

spread  his  throne. 

And  then  at  last  our  bliss, 
Full  and  perfect  is, 

But  now  begins  ;  for,  from  this  hajjpy 
day. 
The  old  dragon,  underground, 
In  straiter  Ihnits  bound. 

Not  half  so  far  casts  his  usurped  sway ; 
And,  wroth  to  see  his  kingdom  fail, 
Swinges  the  scaly  horror  of  his  folded  tail. 

The  oracles  are  dumb  ; 
No  voice  or  hideous  hum 

Runs  through  the  arched  roof  in  words 

deceiving. 
Apollo  from  his  shrine 
Can  no  more  divine, 

With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos 

leaving. 
No  nightly  trance,  or  breathed  spell, 
Inspu-es  the  pale-eyed  priest   from   the 

prophetic  cell. 

The  lonely  mountains  o'er, 
And  the  resounding  shore, 

A  voice   of  weeping   heard  and  loud 
lament ; 
From  haunted  spring  and  dale, 
Edged  with  jjoplar  pale, 

The  parting  Genius  is  withsighingsent ; 
With  flower-inwoven  tresses  torn. 
The  nymphs  in  twilight  shade  of  tangled 
thickets  mourn. 

In  consecrated  earth, 
And  on  the  holy  hearth. 

The  Lars  and  Lemures  mourn  with  mid- 
night plaint. 
In  urns  and  altars  round, 


38 


SOXGS   OF   THREE   CENTUraES. 


A  drear  and  dying  sound 

Afliights  the  Flamens  at  their  service 

quaint ; 
And  the  chill  marble  seems  to  sweat, 
While  each  peculiar  power  foregoes  his 

wonted  seat. 

Peor  and  Baalim 

Forsake  their  temples  dim 

With  that  twice-battered  God  of  Pales- 
tine; 

And  mooned  Ashtaroth, 

Heaven's  queen  and  mother  both, 

Now  sits  not  girt  with  tapers'   holy 
shine ; 

The  Libyac  Hamraon  shrinks  his  horn  ; 

lu  vain  the  Tyrian  maids  their  wounded 
Thammuz  mourn. 

And  sullen  Moloch,  fled, 
Hath  left  in  shadows  dread 

His  burning  idol  all  of  blackest  hue : 
In  vain  with  cymbals'  ring 
They  call  the  gi'isly  king, 

In  dismal  dance  about  the  furnace  blue : 
The  brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast, 
Isis,  andOrus,  andthedogAnubis,  haste. 

Nor  is  Osiris  seen 

In  Memphian  grove  or  green. 

Trampling  the  unshowered  grass  with 
lowiugs  loud ; 

Nor  ran  he  be  at  rest 

Within  his  sacred  chest. 

Naught  but  profoundest  hell  can  be  his 
shroud ; 

In  vain  with  timbrelled  anthems  dark 

The  sable-stoled  sorcerers  bear  his  wor- 
shipped ark. 

He  feels  from  Judah's  land 
The  dreaded  infant's  hand. 

The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky 
eyne ; 
Nor  all  the  gods  beside 
Longer  dare  abide. 

Not  Typhon  huge  ending  in  snaky 
twine ; 
Our  babe,  to  show  his  Godhead  true, 
Can  in  his  swaddling  bands  control  the 
damned  crew. 

So,  when  the  sun  in  bed. 
Curtained  with  cloudy  red. 

Pillows  his  chin  upon  an  orient  wave, 
The  Hocking  shadows  pale 


Troop  to  the  infernal  jail, 

Each  fettered  ghost  slips  to  his  several 

gi-ave ; 
And  the  yellow-skirted  fays 
Fly  after  the  night-steeds,  leaving  their 

moon-loved  maze. 

But  see,  the  Virgin  blest 

Hath  laid  her  babe  to  rest ; 
Time  is  our  tedious  song  should  here 
have  ending : 

Heaven's  youngest-teemed  star 

Hath  fixed  her  polished  car, 

Her  sleeping  Lord  with  handmaid  lamp 
attending ; 

And  all  about  the  courtly  stable 

Bright-harnessed  angels  sit  in  order  ser- 
viceable. 

SONNETS. 

ON  ABRIVING  AT  THE  AGE  OF  TWENTY- 
THREE. 

How  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief 

of  youth. 
Stolen  on  his  wing  my  three-and-twen- 

tieth  year ! 
My  hasting  days  fly  on  with  full  career, 
But  my  late  spring  no  bud  or  blossom 

showeth. 
Perhaps  my  semblance  might  deceive  the 

truth. 
That  1  to  manhood  am  arrived  so  near, 
And  inward  ripeness  doth  much  less 

appear. 
That  some  more  timely-happy  spirits 

endu'th. 
Yet,  be  it  less  or  more,  or  soon  or  slow. 
It  shall  be  still  in  strictest  measure  even 
To  that  same  lot,  however  mean  orhigh, 
Toward  which  Time  leads  me,  and  the 

will  of  Heaven ; 
All  is,  if  I  have  grace  to  use  it  so. 
As  ever  in  my  gi'eat  Taskmaster's  eye. 


ON   HIS  BLINDNESS. 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent, 
Ere  half  my  days  in  this  dark  woiid 

and  wide. 
And  that  one  talent,  which  is  death  to 
hide. 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul 

more  bent 
To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 


THOMAS    ELWOOD.  —  SIR   ROGER  L  ESTRANGE. 


39 


My  true   account,   lest  he  returning 

cRide ; 
"Doth   God    exact    day-labor,    light 

denied?" 
I  fondly  ask  :  but  Patience,  to  prevent 
That  murmur,  soon  replies,  "  God  doth 

not  need 
Either  man's  work  or  his  own  gifts  :  who 

best 
Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him 

best :  his  state 
Is  kingly ;   thousands  at  his  bidding 

speed, 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean   without 

rest; 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and 

wait." 


THOMAS  ELWOOD. 
[1639- 1713.] 

PRAYER. 

Unto  the  glory  of  thy  Holy  Name, 
Eternal  God  !  whom  I  both  love  and  fear, 
Here  bear  1  witness  that  I  never  came 
Before   thy   throne  and    found    thee 

loath  to  hear. 
But,  ever  ready  with  an  open  ear. 
And  though  sometimes  thou  seeni'st  thy 

face  to  hide 
As  one  that  hath  his  love  withdrawn 

from  me, 
'Tis  that  my  faith  may  to  the  full  be 

tried. 
And  I  thereby  may  only  better  see 
How  weak  I  am  when  not  upheld  by 

Thee. 


EICHAPiD  BAXTER. 

[1615-1691.] 

RESIGNATION. 

Lord,  it  belongs  not  to  my  care, 

Whether  I  die  or  live : 
To  love  and  serve  thee  is  my  share, 

And  this  thy  grace  must  give. 
If  life  be  long,  I  will  be  glad. 

That  I  may  long  obey ; 
If  short,  yet  why  should  I  be  sad 

To  soar  to  endless  day  ? 


Christ  leads  me  through  no  darker  rooms 

Than  he  went  thi'ougli  before ; 
He  that  into  God's  kingdom  comes 

Must  enter  by  his  door. 
Come,  Lord,  when  grace  has  made  me 
meet 

Thy  blessed  face  to  see  ; 
For  if  thy  work  on  earth  be  sweet, 

What  will  thy  glory  be  ? 

Then  shall  I  end  my  sad  complaints. 

And  weary,  sinful  days ; 
And  join  with  the  triumphant  saints 

Tliat  sing  Jehovah's  praise. 
My  knowledge  of  that  life  is  small. 

The  eye  of  faith  is  dim ; 
But  't  is  enough  that  Christ  knows  all, 

And  I  shall  be  with  him. 


SIR  ROGER  L'ESTRANGE. 
[1616- 1704.] 

IN  PRISON. 

Beat  on,  proud  billows ;  Boreas,  blow ; 
Swell,   curled  waves,  high  as  Jove's 
roof ; 
Your  incivility  doth  show 

That  innocence  is  tempest  proof; 
Though  surly  Nereus  frown,  my  thoughts 

are  calm  ; 
Then  strike,  Affliction,  for  thy  wounds 
are  balm. 

That  which  the  world  miscalls  a  jail 

A  private  closet  is  to  me ; 
Whilst  a  good  conscience  is  my  bail. 

And  innocence  my  liberty : 
Locks,  bars,  and  solitude  together  met. 
Make  me  no  prisoner,  but  an  anchoret. 

I,  whilst  I  wisht  to  be  retired. 

Into  this  private  room  was  turned ; 

As  if  their  wisdoms  had  conspired 
The  salamander  should  be  burned ; 

Or  like  those  sophists,  that  would  drown 
a  fish, 

I  am  constrained  to  suffer  what  I  wish. 

The  cynic  loves  his  poverty ; 

The  pelican  her  wilderness ; 
And  't  is  the  Indian's  pride  to  be 

Naked  on  frozen  Caucasus : 


40 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Contentment  cannot  smart;   stoics  we 

see 
Make  torments  easier  to  their  apathy. 

These  manacles  upon  my  arm 
I  as  my  mistress'  favors  wear; 

And  for  to  keep  my  ankles  warm 
I  have  some  iron  shackles  there : 

These  walls  are  but  my  garrison  ;  this  cell, 

Which  men  call  jail,  doth  prove  my  cit- 
adel. 

I  'm  in  the  cabinet  lockt  up, 

Like  some  liigh-prized  margarite, 

Or,  like  the  Great  Mogul  or  Pope, 
Am  cloistered  up  from  public  sight : 

Eetiredness  is  a  piece  of  majesty, 

And  thus,  proud  sultan,  I  'm  as  great  as 
thee. 

Here  sin  for  want  of  food  must  starve, 
Where  tempting  objects  are  not  seen ; 

And  these  strong  walls  do  only  serve 
To  keep  vice  out,  and  keep  me  in : 

ilalice  of  late  's  grown  charitable  sure ; 

1  'm  not  committed,  but  am  kept  secure. 

So  he  that  struck  at  Jason's  life. 

Thinking   t'   have  made  his  purpose 
sure, 
By  a  malicious  friendly  knife 

Did  only  wound  him  to  a  cure. 
Malice,    I  see,  wants  wit;  for  what  is 

meant 
Mischief,  ofttimes  proves  favor  by  the 
event. 

Have  you  not  seen  the  nightingale, 
A  prisoner  like,  coojit  in  a  cage, 
How  doth  she  chant  her  wonted  tale. 

In  that  her  narrow  hermitage? 
Even  then   her  charming  melody   doth 

prove 
That  all  her  bars  are  trees,  her  cage  a 
grove. 

I  am  that  bird,  whom  they  combine 

Thus  to  deprive  of  liberty ; 
But  though  they  do  my  corps  confine. 

Yet  mangre  hate,  my  soul  is  free  :  _ 
And  though  immured,  yet  can  I  chirp, 

and  sing 
Disgrace  to  rebels,  glory  to  my  king. 

My  soul  is  free  as  ambient  air, 

Although  my  baser  part  's  immured, 


Whilst  loyal  thoughts  do  still  repair 

T'  accompany  my  solitude  : 
Although  rebellion  do  my  body  bhid. 
My  king  alone  can  captivate  my  mind. 


EDMUND  WALLER. 

[1605 -1687.1 

OLD  AGE  AND  DEATH. 

Thk  seas  are  quiet  when  the  winds  give 

o'er ; 
So  calm  are  we  when  passions  are  no 

more. 
For  then  we  know  how  vain  it  was  to 

boast 
Of  fleeting  things,  too  certain  to  be  lost. 

Clouds  of  affection  from  our  younger  eyes 
Conceal  that  emptiness  which  age  de- 

scries. 
The  soul's  dark  cottage,  battered   and 

decayed. 
Lets  in  new  light  through  chinks  that 

time  has  made. 

Stronger  by  weakness,  wiser  men  become. 
As  they  draw  near  to  their  eternal  home. 
Leaving  the  old,   both  worlds  at  once 

they  view. 
That  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  the 

new. 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY. 

[1618 -1667.] 

OF  MYSELF. 

This  only  grant  me,  that  my  means  may  • 

lie 
Too  low  for  envy,  for  contempt  too  high. 

Some  honor  I  would  have. 
Not  from  gi-eat  deeds,  but  good  alone ; 
The  unknown  are  better  than  ill  known : 

Rumor  can  ope  the  grave. 
Accpuiintance  I  would  have,  but  when  t 

dciiends  ,       ,    .         c 

Not  on  the  immber,  but  the  choice,  01 

friends. 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY. 


41 


Books  should,    not  business,    entertain 

the  light. 
And  sleep,  as  undisturbed  as  death,  the 

night. 
My  house  a  cottage  more 
Than  palace  ;  and  should  fitting  be 
For  all  my  use,  no  luxury. 

My  garden  painted  o'er 
With   Nature's  hand,    not   Art's;    and 

pleasures  yield, 
Horace  might  envy  in  his  Sabine  field. 

Thus   would  I  double  my   life's  fading 

space ; 
For  he  that  runs  it  well  twice  runs  his 
race. 
And  in  this  true  delight. 
These  unbought  sports,  this  hap])y  state, 
I  would  not  fear,  nor  wish,  my  fate; 

But  boldly  say  each  night. 
To-morrow  let  my  sun  his  beams  disfjlay. 
Or  in  clouds  hide  them;  I  have  lived  to- 
day. 


LIBERTY. 

Where  honor  or  where  conscience  does 

not  bind, 
No  other  law  shall  shackle  me ; 
Slave  to  myself  I  will  not  be  : 
Nor  shall  my  future  actions  be  confined 
By  my  own  present  mind. 
Who  by  resolves  and  vows  engaged  does 

stand 
For  days  that  yet  belong  to  Fate, 
Does,    like   an   unthrift,    mortgage  his 

estate 
Before  it  falls  into  his  hand. 
The  bondman  of  the  cloister  so 
All  that  he  does  receive  does  always  owe ; 
And  still  as  time  comes  in,  it  goes  away. 
Not  to  enjoy,  but  debts  to  pay. 
Unlia|)py  slave  !  anel  pupil  to  a  bell ! 
Which  his  hour's  work,  as  well  as  hours, 

does  tell ! 
Unhappy  to  the  last,  the  kind  releasing 

kneU. 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  BURNS. 


From  dryden  to  Burns. 


JOHN  DRYDEN. 

[1631-1701.] 

SONG  FOR  SAINT  CECILIA'S  DAY,  1687. 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  haimony, 
This  universal  frame  began  : 
When  Nature  underneath  a  heap 
Of  jarring  atoms  lay, 
And  could  not  heave  her  head, 

Tlie  tuneful  voice  was  heard  from  high, 
Arise,  ye  more  than  dead  ! 

Then  cold,  and  hot,  and  moist,  and  dry 
In  order  to  their  stations  leap, 
And  music's  power  obey. 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony. 
This  universal  frame  began  : 
From  harmony  to  harmony 

Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes  it 
ran, 

The  diapason  closing  full  in  man. 

"What  passion  cann  ot  music  raise  and  quell  ? 
When  Jubal  struck  the  chorded  shell 
His  listening  brethren  stood  around, 
And,  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell 
To  worship  that  celestial  sound. 
Less  than  a  God  they  thought  there  could 
not  dwell 
Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell 
That  spoke  so  sweetly  and  so  well. 
AYhat  passion  cannot  music  raise  and  quell  ? 

The  trumpet's  loud  clangor 

Excites  us  to  arms. 
With  shrill  notes  of  anger 

And  mortal  alarms. 
The  double  double  double  beat 

Of  the  thundering  drum 

Cries,  "  Hark  !  the  foes  come  ; 
Charge,  charge,  't  is  too  late  to  retreat !  " 


The  soft  complaining  flute 
In  dying  notes  discovers 
The  woes  of  hopeless  lovers, 
Whose  dirge  is  whispered  by  the  war- 
bling lute. 

Sharp  violins  proclaim 
Their  jealous  pangs  and  desperation. 
Fury,  frantic  indignation. 
Depth  of  pains,  and  heiglit  of  passion. 

For  the  fair,  disdainful  dame. 

But  0,  what  art  can  teach, 
What  human  voice  can  reach, 

The  sacred  organ's  praise  ? 
Notes  inspiring  holy  love, 
Notes  that  wing  tlieir  heavenly  ways 

To  mend  the  choirs  above. 


Orpheus  could  lead  the  savage  race, 
And  trees  uprooted  left  their  place, 

Sequacious  of  the  lyre  : 
But  bright   Cecilia  raised  the  wonder 

higher ; 
\Vhen  to   her  organ  vocal  breath  was 

given. 
An  angel  heard,  and  straight  appeared,  — 
Mistaking  earth  for  heaven  ! 

GRAND   CHORUS. 

As  from  the  power  of  sacred  lays 

The  spheres  began  to  move, 
And  sung  the  great  Creator's  praise 

To  all  the  blest  above ; 
So  when  the  last  and  dreadful  hour 
This  crumbling  pageant  shall  devour, 
The  trumjiet  shall  be  heard  on  high, 
The  dead  shall  live,  the  living  die. 
And  music  shall  untune  the  sky. 


46 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


UNDER  MILTON'S  PICTURE. 


Thkee  Poets,  in  three  distant  ages  Lorn, 

Greece,  Italy,  and  England  did  adorn. 

The  first  in  loftiness  of  thought  sur- 
passed ; 

Tlie  next  in  majesty ;  in  both  the  last. 

The  force  of  Nature  could  no  further  go  ; 

To  make  a  third,  she  joined  the  former 
two. 


CHARACTER  OF  A  GOOD  PARSON. 


A   PARISH   priest   was    of   the  jiilgrim 

train  ; 
An  awful,  reverend,  and  religions  man. 
His  eyes  diffused  a  venerable  grace. 
And  charity  itself  was  in  his  face. 
Rich  was  his  soul,  though  his  attire  was 

poor 
(As  God  hath  clothed  his  own  ambassa- 
dor) ; 
For  such,  on  earth,  his  blessed  Redeemer 

bore. 
Of  sixty  years  he  seemed ;  and  well  might 

last 
To  sixty  more,  but  that  he  lived  too  fast. 
Refined  himself  to  soul,  to  curb  the  sense, 
And  made  almost  a  sin  of  abstinence. 
Yet  had  his  aspect  nothing  of  severe, 
Tint  such  a  face  as  promised  him  sincere. 
Nothing  reserved  or  sullen  was  to  see  ; 
But  sweet  regards,  and  pleasing  sanctity. 
Wild  was  his  accent,  and  his  action  free. 
With  eloquence  innate  his  tongue  was 

armed ; 
Though  harsh  the  precept,  yet  the  peo- 
ple charmed. 
For,  letting  down  the  golden  chain  from 

high , 
He  drew  his  audience  upward  to  the  sky  : 
And  oft  with  holy  hymns  he   charmed 

their  ears 
(A   music    more    melodious    than    the 

spheres); 
For  David  left  him,  when  he  went  to  rest, 
His  lyre  ;  and   after  him   he  sung  the 

best. 
He  bore  his  great  commission  in  his  look  ; 
But  sweetly  tempered  awe,  and  softened 

all  he  spoke. 
He  preached  the  joys  of  heaven  and  pains 

of  hell. 
And  warned  the  sinner  with  becoming 

zeal  ; 
But  on  eternal  mercy  loved  to  dwell. 


He  taught  the  gospel  rather  than   the 

law ; 
And  forced  himself  to  drive  ;  but  loved 

to  draw. 
For  fear  but  freezes  minds  ;  but  love,  like 

heat. 
Exhales  the  soul  sublime,  to   seek  her 

native  seat. 
To  threats  the  stubborn  sinner  oft  is  hard, 
Wrapped    in    his    crimes,    against  the 

storm  prepared ; 
But  when  the  milder  beams  of  mercy 

He  melts,  and  throws  his  cumbrous  cloak 
away. 

Lightning  and  thunder  (heaven's  artil- 
lery) 

As  harbingers  before  the  Almighty  fly: 

Those  but  proclaim  his  style,  and  disap- 
pear ; 

The  stiller  sounds  succeed,  and  God  is 
there. 


REASON. 

Dim  as  the  borrowed  beams  of  moon  and 

stars 
To  lonely,  weary,  wandering  travellers, 
Is  reason  to  the  soul :  and  as  on  high. 
Those  rolling  fires  discover  but  the  sky. 
Not  light  us  here  ;  so  reason's  glimmer- 
ing ray 
Was  lent,  not  to  assure  our  doubtful  way, 
But  guide  us  upward  to  a  better  day. 
And  as  those  nightly  tapers  disappear 
When   day's   bright   lord    ascends    our 

hemisphere  ; 
So  pale  grows  reason  at  religion's  sight,  — 
So  dies,  and  so  dissolves  in  supernatural 
liffht. 


THOMAS  KEN. 
[1637-1711O 

MORNING  HYMN. 

Awake,  my  soul,  and  with  the  sun 
Thy  daily  course  of  duty  run  ; 
Shake  off  dull  sloth,  andjoyful  rise 
To  pay  thy  morning  sacrifice. 

Wake,  and  lift  up  thyself,  my  heart, 
And  with  the  angels  bear  thy  part, 


JOSEPH  ADDISON. 


47 


Who  all  night  long  unwearied  sing 
High  praises  to  the  eternal  King. 

All  praise  to  Thee,  who  safe  hast  kept, 
And  hast  refreshed  me  whilst  I  slept; 
Grant,  Lord,  when  I  from  death   shaU 

wake, 
I  may  of  endless  light  partake. 

Lord,  I  my  vows  to  thee  renew ; 
Disperse  my  sins  as  morning  dew  ; 
Guard  my  first  springs  of  thought  and 

will, 
And  with  thyself  my  spirit  fill. 

Direct,  control,  suggest,  this  day, 
All  I  design,  or  do,  or  say ; 
That  all  my  powers,  with  all  their  might. 
In  thy  sole  glory  may  unite. 

Praise  God,  from  whom  all  blessings  flow ; 
Praise  him,  all  creatures  here  below ; 
Praise  him  above,  ye  heavenly  host ; 
Piaise  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON. 
[1672-1719.] 

HYMN. 

How  are  thy  servants  blest,  0  Lord  ! 

How  sure  is  their  defence  ! 
Eternal  Wisdom  is  their  guide, 

Their  help  Omnipotence. 

In  foreign  realms  and  lands  remote, 

Supported  by  thy  care, 
Through  burning  climes  I  passed  unhurt. 

And  breathed  in  tainted  air. 

Thy  mercy  sweetened  every  toil. 

Made  every  region  please  ; 
The  hoary  Alpine  hills  it  warmed. 

And  smoothed  the  Tyrrhene  seas. 

Think,  0  my  soul,  devoutly  think, 

How,  with  affrighted  eyes. 
Thou  saw'st  the  wide  extended  deep 

In  all  its  horrors  rise. 

Confusion  dwelt  in  every  face, 

And  fear  in  every  heart ; 
When  waves  on  waves,  and  gulfs  on  gulfs, 

O'ercame  the  pilot's  art. 


Yet  then  from  all  my  griefs,  0  Lord, 

Thy  mercy  set  me  free. 
Whilst  in  the  confidence  of  prayer, 

My  faith  took  hold  on  thee. 

For,  though  in  dreadful  whirls  we  hung, 

High  on  the  broken  wave, 
I  knew  thou  wert  not  slow  to  hear, 

Nor  impotent  to  save. 

The  storm  was  laid,  the  winds  retired 

Obedient  to  thy  will ; 
The  sea,  that  roared  at  thj'  command, 

At  thy  command  was  still. 

In  midst  of  dangers,  fears,  and  death, 

Thy  goodness  I  'll  adore, 
And  praise  thee  for  tliy  mercies  past, 

And  humbly  hope  for  more. 

My  life,  if  thou  preserv'st  my  life. 

Thy  sacrifice  shall  be ; 
And  death,  if  death  must  be  my  doom. 

Shall  join  my  soul  to  thee. 


PARAPHRASE  OF  PSALM  XXIII. 

The  Lord  my  pasture  shall  prepare. 
And  feed  me  with  a  shepherd's  care  ; 
His  presence  shall  my  wants  supply, 
And  guard  me  with  a  watchful  eye  ; 
My  noonday  walks  he  shall  attend. 
And  all  my  midnight  hours  defend. 

When  in  the  sultry  glebe  I  faint. 
Or  on  the  thirsty  mountain  pant, 
To  fertile  vales  and  dewy  meads 
My  weary,  wandering  steps  he  leads, 
Where  peaceful  rivers,  soft  and  slow, 
Amid  the  verdant  landscape  flow. 

Though  in  the  paths  of  death  I  tread. 
With  gloomy  horrors  overspread. 
My  steadfast  heart  shall  fear  no  ill ; 
For  thou,  0  Lord,  art  with  me  still  : 
Thy  friendly  crook  shall  give  me  aid. 
And  guide  me  through  the  dreadful  shade. 

Though  in  a  bare  and  rugged  way. 
Through  devious  lonely  wilds  I  stray. 
Thy  bounty  shall  my  wants  beguile. 
The  barren  wilderness  shall  smile. 
With  sudden  greensand  herbage  crowned. 
And  streams  shall  murmur  all  around. 


48 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTUEIES. 


ALEXANDER  POPE. 

[16S8-1744.] 

THE  UNIVERSAL  PRAYER. 

Father  of  all !  in  every  age, 

In  every  clime  adored, 
By  saint,  by  savage,  and  by  sage, 

Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord ! 

Thou  great  First  Cause,  least  understood. 

Who  all  my  sense  confined 
To  know  but  this,  that  thou  art  good. 

And  that  myself  am  blind ; 

Yet  gave  me,  in  this  dark  estate. 

To  see  the  good  from  ill ; 
And,  binding  nature  fast  in  fate. 

Left  free  the  human  will. 

What  conscience  dictates  to  be  done. 

Or  warns  me  not  to  do, 
This  teach  me  more  tlian  hell  to  shun, 

That  more  than  heaven  pursue. 

What  blessings  thy  free  bounty  gives 

Let  me  not  cast  away  ; 
For  God  is  paid  when  man  receives  : 

To  enjoy  is  to  obey. 

Yet  not  to  earth's  contracted  span 
Thy  goodness  let  me  bound. 

Or  think  thee  Lord  alone  of  man, 
When  thousand  worlds  are  round. 

Let  not  this  weak,  unknowing  hand 
Presume  thj^  bolts  to  throw, 

And  deal  damnation  round  the  land 
On  each  I  judge  thy  foe. 

If  I  am  right,  thy  grace  impart 

Still  in  the  right  to  stay  ; 
If  I  am  wrong,  0,  teach  my  heart 

To  find  that  better  way  ! 

Save  me  alike  from  foolish  pride, 

Or  impioTis  discontent, 
At  aught  thy  wisdom  has  denied, 

Or  aught  thy  goodness  lent. 

Teach  me  to  feel  another's  woe. 

To  hide  the  fault  I  see ; 
That  mercy  I  to  othei's  show, 

That  mercy  show  to  me. 

Mean  though  I  am,  not  wholly  so. 
Since  cjuickened  by  thy  breath ; 


0,  lead  me  wheresoe'er  I  go, 

Through  this  day's  life  or  death. 

This  day  be  bread  and  peace  my  lot ; 

All  else  beneath  the  sun 
Thou  know'st  if  best  bestowed  or  not. 

And  let  thy  will  be  done  ! 

To  thee,  whose  temple  is  all  space,  — 
Whose  altar,  earth,  sea,  skies,  — 

One  chorus  let  all  beings  raise  ! 
All  Nature's  incense  rise  ! 


HAPPDTESS. 

0  HAPPINESS  !  our  being's  end  and  aim ! 

Good,  pleasure,  ease,  content!  whate'er 
th}'  name  ; 

That  something  still,  which  prompts  the 
eternal  sigh ; 

For  which  we  bear  to  live  or  dare  to 
die  ; 

Which  still  so  near  us,  yet  bej'ond  us 
lies, 

O'erlooked,  seen  double  by  the  fool,  and 
wise. 

Plant  of  celestial  seed !  if  dropped  be- 
low. 

Say,  in  what  mortal  soil  thou  deign'st  to 
gi-ow  ? 

Fair  opening  to  some  court's  propitious 
shrine, 

Or  deep  with  diamonds  in  the  flaming 
mine  ? 

Twined  with  the  wreaths  Parnassian 
laurels  yield, 

Or  reaped  in  iron  harvests  of  the  field  ? 

Where  grows  ?  —  where  grows  it  not  ? 
If  vain  our  toil. 

We  oughtto  blame  the  culture,  not  the 
soil: 

Fixed  to  no  spot  is  happiness  sincere, 

'Tis  nowhere  to  be  found,  or  everywhere. 
Ask  of  the  learned  the  way,  the  learned 
are  blind ; 

This  bids  to  serve,  and  that  to  shun  man- 
kind : 

Some  place  the  bliss  in  action,  some  in 
ease; 

Those  call  it  pleasure,  and  contentment 
these  : 

Some,  sunk  to  beasts,  find  pleasure  end 
in  pain ; 

Some,  swelled  to  gods,  confess  e'en  vir- 
tue vain : 

Or  indolent,  to  each  extreme  they  fall,  — 


ALLAN   EAMSAY. 


49 


To  trust  in  everything,  or  doubt  of  alL 

"Who  thus  deiiue  it,  say  they  more  or  less 

Than  this,  that  happiness  is  happiness  ? 

Take  nature's  path,  and  mad  opinion's 
leave ; 

All  states  can  reach  it,  and  all  heads  con- 
ceive ; 

Obvious  her  goods,  in  no  extremes  they 
dwell ; 

There  needs  but  thinking  right  and 
meaning  well ; 

And  mourn  our  various  portions  as  we 
please. 

Equal  is  common  sense  and  common  ease. 

Eeinember,  man,  "The  Universal  Cause 

Acts  not  by  partial,  but  by  general  laws  " ; 

And  makes  what  happiness  we  justly 
call 

Subsist  not  in  the  good  of  one,  but  all. 

There  's  not  a  blessing  individuals  find, 

But  some  way  leans  and  hearkens  to  the 
kind ; 

No  bandit  fierce,  no  tyrant  mad  with 
pride, 

'No  caverned  hermit  rests  self-satisfied  : 

Who  most  to  shun  or  hate  mankind  pre- 
tend. 

Seek  an  admirer,  or  would  fix  a  friend : 

Abstract  what  others  feel,  what  others 
think, 

All  pleasures  sicken,  and  all  glories  sink  : 

Each  has  his  share  ;  and  who  would 
more  obtain 

Shall  find  the  pleasure  pays  not  half  the 
pain. 

Order  is  Heaven's  first  law ;  and,  this  con- 
fessed, 

Some  are,  and  must  be,  greater  than  the 
rest, 

More  rich,  more  wise  :  but  who  infers 
from  hence 

That  such  are  happier  shocks  all  common- 
sense. 

Heaven  to  mankind  impartial  we  confess. 

If  all  are  equal  in  their  happiness  : 

But  mutual  wants  this  happiness  in- 
crease ; 

All  nature's  difference  keeps  all  nature's 
peace. 

Condition,  circumstance,  is  not  the  thing; 

Bliss  is  the  same  in  subject  or  in  king, 

In  who  obtain  defence  or  w^ho  defend, 

In  him  who  is  or  him  who  finds  a  friend  ; 

Heaven  breathes  through  every  member 
of  the  whole 

One  common  blessing,  as  one  common 
soul. 


But  fortune's  gifts  if  each  alike  possessed, 

And  all  were  equal,   must  not  all  con- 
test? 

If  then  to  all  men  happiness  was  meant, 

God  in  externals   could  not  place  con- 
tent. 
Fortune  her  gifts  may  variously  dis- 
pose, 

And  these   be   happy  called,    unhappy 
those  ; 

But  Heaven's  just  balance  equal  will  ap- 
pear, 

While   those   are   placed  in  hope,   and 
these  in  fear ; 

Not  present  good  or  ill,  the  joy  or  curse, 

But  future  views  of  better  or  of  worse. 

0   sons   of  earth,    attempt   ye   still   to 
rise. 

By  mountains  piled  on  mountains,  to  the 
skies  ? 

Heaven  still  with  laughter  the  vain  toil 
surveys, 

And  buries  madmen  in  the  heaps  they 
raise. 
Know,  all  the  good  that  individuals 
find. 

Or  God  and  nature  meant  to  mere  man- 
kind, 

Reason's  whole  pleasure,  all  the  joys  of 
sense. 

Lie  in  three  words,  health,  peace,  and 
comj)etence. 


ALLAN  EAMSAY. 

[168S-1758.] 

SONG. 

Farewell  to  Lochaber,  farewell  to  my 

Jean, 
Where  heartsome  with  thee  I  have  mony 

a  day  been : 
To  Lochaber  no  more,  to  Lochaber  no 

more. 
We  '11  maybe  return   to   Lochaber  no 

more. 
These  tears  that  I  shed  they  are  a'  for 

my  dear. 
And  not  for  the  dangers  attending  on 

weir; 
Though  borne  on   rough   seas  to  a  far 

bloody  shore. 
Maybe  to  return  to  Lochaber  no  more  I 


50 


SONGS   OF   THEEE   CENTURIES. 


Though  liurricanes  rise,  and  rise  every 

wind, 
No  tempest  can  equal  the  storm  in  my 

mind  ; 
Though  loudest  of  thunders  on  louder 

waves  roar, 
That 's  naething  like  leaving  my  love  on 

the  shore. 
To  leave  thee  behind  me  my  heart  is  sair 

pained. 
But  by  ease  that 's  inglorious  no  fame 

can  be  gained : 
And  beauty  and  love 's  the  reward  of  the 

brave ; 
And  I  maun  deserve  it  before  I  can  crave. 

Then  glory,  my  Jeany,  maun  plead  my 
excuse ; 

Since  honor  commands  me,  how  can  I 
refuse  ? 

Without  it  I  ne'er  can  have  merit  for 
thee. 

And  losing  thy  favor  I  'd  better  not  be. 

I  gae  then,  my  lass,  to  win  honor  and 
fame, 

And  if  I  should  chance  to  come  glorious 
hame, 

I  'U  bring  a  heart  to  thee  with  love  run- 
ning o'er. 

And  then  I  '11  leave  thee  and  Lochaber 


JOHN  aAT. 

[1688-1732-] 

THE  PAINTER  WHO  PLEASED  NOBODY 
AND  EVERYBODY. 

Lest  men  suspect  your  tale  untrue, 
Keep  proliability  in  view. 
The  traveller,  leaping  o'er  those  bounds, 
The  credit  of  his  book  confounds. 
Who  with  his  tongue  hath  armies  routed 
Makes  even  his  real  coiirage  doubted ; 
But  flattery  never  seems  absurd  ; 
The  flattered  always  takes  your  word  : 
Iinpossibilities  seem  just ; 
Tliey  take  the  strongest  priiise  on  trust. 
Hyperboles,  thougli  ne'er  so  great, 
Will  still  come  short  of  self-conceit. 

So  very  like  a  painter  drew, 
That  every  eye  tlie  picture  knew; 
He  hit  complexion,  feature,  air. 


So  just,  the  life  itself  was  there. 
No  flattery  with  his  colors  laid. 
To  bloom  restored  tlie  faded  maid  ; 
He  gave  each  muscle  all  its  strength, 
The  mouth,  the  chin,  the  nose's  length. 
His  honest  pencil  touched  with  truth, 
And  marked  the  date  of  age  and  youth. 
He  lost  his  friends,  his  practice  failed ; 
Truth  should  not  always  be  revealed ; 
In  dusty  piles  his  pictures  lay. 
For  no  one  sent  the  second  pay. 
Two  bustos,  fraught  with  every  grace, 
A  Venus'  and  Apollo's  face, 
He  placed  in  view  ;  resolved  to  please, 
Whoever  sat,  he  drew  fiom  these, 
From  these  corrected  every  feature, 
And  spirited  each  awkward  creature. 
All   things  were   set;    the   hour  was 

come. 
His  pallet  ready  o'er  his  thumb. 
My  lord  appeared ;  and  seated  right 
In  proper  attitude  and  light. 
The   jiainter    looked,    he   sketched   the 

piece, 
Then  dipped  his  pencil,  talked  of  Greece, 
Of  Titian's  tints,  of  Guide's  air ; 
' '  Those  eyes,  my  lord,  the  spirit  there 
Might  well  a  Eaphael's  hand  require, 
To  give  them  all  their  native  fire  ; 
The   features    fraught   with    sense    and 

wit. 
You  '11  grant  are  very  hard  to  hit ; 
But  yet  with  patience  you  shall  view 
As  much  as  paint  and  art  can  do. 
Observe  the  work."     My  lord  replied  : 
"  Till   now  I  thought  my  mouth   was 

wide  ; 
Besides,  my  nose  is  somewhat  long ; 
Dear  sir,  for  me,  't  is  far  too  young." 
"Oh!  pardon  me,"  the  artist  cried, 
"In  this  the  painters  must  decide. 
Tlie  piece  even  common  eyes  must  strike, 
I  warrant  it  extremely  like." 

My  lord  examined  it  anew ; 
No  looking-glass  .seemed  half  so  true. 
A  lady  came;  with  borrowed  grace 
He  from  his  Venus  formed  liei-  face. 
Her  lover  praised  the  painter's  art; 
So  like  the  j)icture  in  his  heart ! 
To  every  age  some  charm  he  lent ; 
Even  beauties  were  almost  content. 
Through  all  the  town  his  art  they  praised; 
His  custom  grew,  his  price  was  raised. 
Had  he  the  real  likeness  sliown. 
Would  any  man  tlie  picture  own  ? 
F)Ut  when  thus  ]ia]i])ily  lie  wrought. 
Each  found  the  likeness  in  his  thought. 


JOHIST   BYROM, — JAMES   THOMSON. 


51 


JOHN  BYROM. 

[1691-1763.] 

CARELESS  COKTENT. 

I  AM  content,  I  do  not  care, 

Wag  as  it  will  the  world  for  me ; 

"When  fuss  and  fret  was  all  my  fare, 
It  got  no  ground  as  I  could  see  : 

So  when  away  my  caring  went, 

I  counted  cost,  and  was  content. 

With  more  of  thanks  and  less  of  thought, 
I  strive  to  make  my  matters  meet ; 

To  seek  what  ancient  sages  sought, 
Pliysic  and  food  in  sour  and  sweet : 

To  take  what  passes  in  good  part. 

And  keep  the  hiccups  from  the  heart. 

"With  good  and  gentle-humored  hearts, 
I  choose  to  chat  where'er  I  come, 

"Whate'er  the  subject  be  that  starts ; 
But  if  I  get  among  the  glum, 

I  hold  my  tongue  to  tell  the  truth, 

And  keep  my  breath  to  cool  my  broth. 

For  chance  or  change  of  peace  or  pain. 
For  Fortune's  favor  or  her  frown, 

For  lack  or  glut,  for  loss  or  gain, 
I  never  dodge  nor  up  nor  down  ; 

But  swing  what  way  the  shi})  shall  swim. 

Or  tack  about  with  et^ual  trim. 

I  suit  not  where  I  shall  not  speed, 
Nor  trace  the  turn  of  every  tide  ; 

If  simple  sense  will  not  succeed, 
I  make  no  bustling,  but  abide ; 

For  shining  wealth  or  scaring  woe, 

I  force  no  friend,  1  fear  no  foe. 

Of  ups  and  downs,  of  ins  and  outs. 
Of  they  're  i'  the  wrong,  and  we  're 
i'  the  right, 

I  shun  the  rancors  and  the  routs  ; 
And  wishing  well  to  every  wight, 

"Whatever  turn  the  matter  takes, 

I  deem  it  all  but  ducks  and  drakes. 

"With  whom  I  feast  I  do  not  fawn, 
Nor  if  the  folks  shoirld  flout  me,  faint ; 

If  wonted  welcome  be  withdrawn, 
I  cook  no  kind  of  a  com]ilaint : 

With  none  disposed  to  disagree. 

But  like  them  best  who  best  like  me. 

Not  that  I  rate  myself  the  rule 

How  all  my  betters  should  behave ; 


But  fame  shall  find  me  no  man's  fool, 

Nor  to  a  set  of  men  a  slave  : 
I  love  a  friendship  free  and  frank, 
And  hate  to  hang  upon  a  hank. 

Fond  of  a  true  and  trusty  tie, 
I  never  loose  where'er  1  link ; 

Though  if  a  business  budges  by, 
I  talk  thereon  just  as  I  think ; 

My  word,  my  work,  my  heart,  my  hand, 

Still  on  a  side  together  stand. 

If  names  or  notions  make  a  noise, 
Whatever  hap  the  question  hath, 

The  point  impartially  I  poise, 

And  read  or  write,  but  without  wrath ; 

For  should  I  burn,  or  break  my  brains, 

Fray,  who  will  pay  me  for  my  pains  ? 

I  love  my  neighbor  as  myself. 

Myself  like  him  too,  by  his  leave ; 

Nor  to  his  pleasure,  power,  or  pelf 
Came  I  to  crouch,  as  I  conceive : 

Dame  Nature  doubtless  has  designed 

A  man  the  monarch  of  his  mind. 

Now  taste  and  try  this  temper,  sirs ; 

Mood  it  and  brood  it  in  your  breast ; 
Or  if  ye  ween,  for  Avorldly  stirs, 

That  man  does  right  to  mar  his  rest, 
Let  me  be  deft,  and  debonair, 
1  am  content,  I  do  not  care. 


JAMES  THOMSON. 

[1700- 1748.] 

FROM  THE  "  CASTLE  OP  INDOLENCE." 

Ix  lowly  dale,  fast  by  a  river's  side, 
With  woody  hill  o'er  hill  encompassed 

round, 
A  most  enchanting  wizard  did  abide, 
Than  whom  a  friend  more  fell  is  no- 
where found. 
It  was,  I  ween,  a  lovely  spot  of  ground  : 
And  there  a  season  atween  June  and 

May, 
Half  pranked  with  spring,  with  sum- 
mer half  imbrowned, 
A  listless  climate  made,  where,  sooth 
to  say, 
No  living  wight  could  work,  nor  cared 
even  for  play. 


52 


SOXGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Was  naught  around  but  images  of  rest : 

Sleeji-soothing  groves,  and  i^uiet  lawns 
between ; 

And  flowery  beds  that  shimberous  in- 
fluence kest, 

From  poppies  breathed;  and  beds  of 
pleasant  green, 

Where  never   yet  was  creeping  crea- 
ture seen. 

Meantime      unnumbered      glittering 
streandets  played. 

And  hurled   everywhere  their  waters 
sheen ; 

That,   as  they  bickered  through   the 
sunny  glade, 
Though  restless  still  themselves,  a  lull- 
ing murmur  made. 

Joined   to  the  prattle  of  the  purling 

rills. 
Were  heard  the  lowing  herds  along  the 

vale, 
And  flocks  loud  bleating  from  the  dis- 
tant hills. 
And  vacant  shepherds  piping  in  the 

dale ; 
And   now   and   then  sweet  Philomel 

would  wail. 
Or  stock -doves  plain  amid  the  forest 

deep. 
That   drowsy  rustled   to   the  sighing 

gale; 
And  still  a  coil  the  grasshopper  did 

keep; 
Yet  all  tliese  sounds  yblent  inclined  all 

to  sleep. 

Full  in  the  passage  of  the  vale  above, 
A  sable,  silent,  solemn  forest  stood, 
Where  naught  but  shadowy  forms  was 

seen  to  move. 
As  Idlesse  fancied  in  her  dreamyraood : 
And   up   the   hills,  on  either  side,  a 

wood 
Of  blackening  pines,  aye  waving  to 

and  fro, 
Sent  forth  a  sleepy  horror  through  the 

blood  ; 
And  where  this  valley  winded  out  be- 
low. 
The   murmuring  main  was  heard,  and 
scarcely  heartl,  to  flow. 

A  pleasing  land  of  drowsy-head  it  was. 
Of  dreams  that  wave  before  tht  half- 
shut  eye : 


And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that 

pass, 
Forever  flushing  round  a  summer  sky : 
There  eke  the  soft  delights,  that  witch- 

Instil  a  wanton  sweetness  through  the 
breast, 

And  the  calm  jileasures,  always  hov- 
ered nigh ; 

But  whate'er  smacked  of  noyance  or 
nnrest 
Was  far,  far  off  expelled  from  this  deli- 
cious nest. 


A  HYMN. 

These,  as  they  change,  Almighty  Fa- 
ther, these 

Are  but  the  varied  God.  The  rolling 
year 

Is  full  of  thee.  Forth  in  the  pleasing 
spring 

Thy  beauty  walks,  thy  tenderness  and 
love. 

Wide  flush  the  fields;  the  softening  air 
is  balm ; 

Echo  the  mountains  round;  the  forest 
smiles ; 

And  every  sense,  and  every  heart,  is  joy. 

Then  comes  thy  glory  in  the  summer 
months, 

With  light  and  heat  refulgent.  Then 
thy  sun 

Shoots  full  perfection  through  the  swell- 
ing year ; 

And  oft  thy  voice  in  dreadful  thunder 
speaks. 

And  oft  at  dawn,  deep  noon,  or  falling 
eve, 

By  brooks  and  groves,  in  hollow-whis- 
pering gales. 

Thy  bounty  shines  in  autumn  uncon- 
fined. 

And  spreads  a  common  feast  for  all  that 
lives. 

In  winter  awful  thou  !  with  clouds  and 
storms 

Around  thee  thrown,  tempest  o'er  tem- 
pest rolled, 

Majestic  darkness !  On  the  whirlwind's 
wing, 

Riding  sulilime,  thou  bid'st  the  world 
adore, 

And  humblest  nature  with  thy  northern 
blast. 


JAMES  THOMSON. 


53 


Mysterious  round!  wliat  skill,   what 
force  divine, 

Deep  felt,  in  these  appear !  a  simple  train. 

Yet  so  delightful  mixed,  with  such  kind 
art, 

Such  beauty  and  beneficence  combined ; 

Shade,   unperceived,   so  softening   into 
shade ; 

And  all  so  forming  an  harmonious  whole  ; 

That,  as  they  still  succeed,  they  ravish 
still. 

But  wandering  oft,  with  brute  uncon- 
scious gaze, 

Man  marks  not  thee,   marks  not  the 
mighty  hand. 

That,    ever    busy,    wheels    the    silent 
spheres ; 

"Works  in  the  secret  deep ;  shoots,  steam- 
ing, thence 

The  fair  profusion  that  o'erspreads  the 
spring ; 

Flings  from  the  sun  direct  the  flaming 
day; 

Feeds  every  creature ;  hurls  the  tempests 
forth; 

And,  as  on  earth  this  grateful  change 
revolves, 

With  transport  touches  all  the  springs 
of  life. 
Nature,  attend !  join  every  living  soul. 

Beneath  the  spacious  temple  of  the  sky. 

In  adoration  join  ;  and,  ardent,  raise 

One  general  song!     To  him,  ye  vocal 
gales, 

Breathe  soft,  whose  spirit  in  your  fresh- 
ness breathes : 

0,  talk  of  him  in  solitary  glooms ; 

Where,  o'er  the  rock,  the  scarcely  wav- 
ing pine 

Fills  the  brown  shade  with  a  religious 
awe! 

And  ye,  whose  bolder  note  is  heard  afar, 

Who  shake   tlie   astonished  world,  lift 
high  to  heaven 

The  impetuous  song,  and  say  from  whom 
you  rage. 

His  praise,  ye  brooks,  attune,  ye  trem- 
bling rills ; 

And  let  me  catch  it  as  I  muse  along. 

Ye  headlong   toiTents,   rapid  and   pro- 
found; 

Ye  softer  Hoods,   that  lead   the   humid 
maze 

Along  the  vale ;  and  thou,  majestic  main, 

A  secret  world  of  wonders  in  thyself, 

Sound    his    stupendous    praise,    whose 
greater  voice 


Or  bids  you  roar,  or  bids  your  roarings 

fall. 
Soft  roll  your  incense,  herbs,  and  fruits, 

and  flowers. 
In  mingled  clouds  to  him,  whose   sun 

exalts. 
Whose  breath  perfumes  you,  and  whose 

pencil  paints. 
Ye   forests  bend,   ye  harvests  wave,  to 

him ; 
Breathe  your  still  song  into  the  reaper's 

heart. 
As  home  he  goes  beneath  the  joyous 

moon. 
Ye  that  keep  watch  in  heaven,  as  earth 

asleep 
Unconscious    lies,    eS'use    your  mildest 

beams. 
Ye    constellations,   while    your    angels 

strike. 
Amid  the  spangled  sky,  the  silver  lyre. 
Great  source  of  day!  best  image  here 

below 
Of  thy  Creator,  ever  pouring  wide. 
From  world  to   world,  the  vital  ocean 

round. 
On  Nature  write  with  every  beam  his 

praise. 
The  thunder  rolls :  be  hushed  the  pros- 
trate world ; 
While  cloud  to  cloud  returns  the  solemn 

hymn. 
Bleat  out   afresh,   ye  hills;   ye  mossy 

rocks. 
Retain  the  sound ;  the  broad  responsive 

low, 
Ye  valleys,  raise;   for  the  great  Shep- 
herd reigns. 
And  his  unsuffering  kingdom  yet  will 

come. 
Ye  woodlands  all,  awake :   a  boundless 

song 
Burst  from  the  groves;  and  when  the 

restless  day. 
Expiring,  lays  the  warbling  world  asleep, 
Sweetest    of    birds !    sweet    Philomela, 

charm 
The  listening  shades,  and  teach  the  night 

his  praise. 
Ye  chief,  for  whom  the  whole  creation 

smiles, 
At  once  the  head,  the  heart,  and  tongue 

of  all, 
Crown   the   gi-eat  hymn !  in   swarming 

cities  vast. 
Assembled    men    to    the    deep    organ 

join 


54 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


The  long-resounding  voice,  oft  breaking 

clear, 
At  solemn  pauses,  through  the  swelling 

bass; 
And,  as  each  mingling  flame  increases 

each, 
In  one  united  ardor  rise  to  heaven. 
Or  if  you  rather  choose  the  rural  shade. 
And  find  a  fane  in  every  sacred  grove. 
There  let  the  shepherd's  flute,  the  vir- 
gin's lay. 
The  prompting  seraph,  and  the  poet's 

lyre. 
Still  sing  the  God  of  seasons,  as  they 

roll. 
For   me,    when    I    forget    the    darling 

theme, 
Whether  the  blossom  blows,  the  summer 

I'ay 
Russets    the    plain,    inspiring    autumn 

gleams. 
Or  winter  rises  in  the  blackening  east. 
Be  my  tongue  mute,  my  fancy  paint  no 

more. 
And,  dead  to  joy,  forget  my  heart  to 

beat ! 
Should  fate  command  me  to  the  far- 
thest verge 
Of  the  gi'cen  earth,  to  distant  barbarous 

climes. 
Rivers  unknown  to  song,  — where  first 

the  sun 
Gilds  Indian  mountains,  or  his  setting 

beam 
Flames    on    the    Atlantic    isles,  —  't  is 

naught  to  me  : 
Since  God  is  ever  present,  ever  felt. 
In  the  void  waste,  as  in  the  city  full ; 
And  wliere  he  vital  breathes,  there  must 

be  joy. 
When  even  at  last  the  solemn  hour  shall 

come, 
And  wing   my  mystic  flight  to  future 

worlds, 
I   cheerful  will   obey;  there,   with  new 

powers. 
Will  rising  wonders  sing :  I  cannot  go 
Where  Universal  Love  not  smiles  around, 
Sustaining   all   yon  orbs,  and  all  their 

suns ; 
From  seeming  evil  still  educing  good. 
And    better   thence    again,    and   better 

still, 
In  infinite  progression.     But  I  lose 
Myself  in  him,  in  light  inefiable  ! 
Come  then,  expressive  Silence,  muse  his 

praise. 


JOHN  DYER. 

[1700- 1758.] 

GRONGAR  HILL. 

SiLKNT  nymph,  with  curious  eye ! 
Who,  the  purple  eve,  dost  lie 
On  the  mountain's  lonely  van, 
Beyond  the  noise  of  busy  man. 
Painting  fair  the  form  of  things. 
While  the  yellow  linnet  sings, 
Or  the  tuneful  nightingale 
Charms  the  forest  with  her  tale,  — 
Gome,  with  all  thy  various  hues, 
Come  and  aid  thy  sister  Muse. 
Now,  while  Phcebus,  riding  high. 
Gives  lustre  to  the  land  and  sky, 
Grongar  Hill  invites  my  song,  — 
Draw  the  landscape  bright  and  strong; 
Grongar,  in  whose  mossy  cells 
Sweetly  musing  Quiet  dwells ; 
Grongar,  in  whose  silent  shade. 
For  the  modest  Muses  made. 
So  oft  1  have,  the  evening  still, 
At  the  fountain  of  a  rill. 
Sat  u])on  a  flowery  bed, 
With  my  hand  beneath  my  head, 
While    strayed    my    eyes    o'er    Towy's 

flood. 
Over  mead  and  over  wood. 
From  house  to  house,  from  hill  to  hill, 
Till  Contemplation  had  her  fill. 

About  his  checkered  sides  I  wind, 
And  leave   his  brooks  and  meads  be- 
hind. 
And  groves  and  grottos  where  I  lay. 
And  vistas  shooting  beams  of  day. 
Wide  and  wider  spreads  the  vale. 
As  circles  on  a  smooth  canal. 
The  mountains  round,  unhappy  fate  ! 
Sooner  or  later,  of  all  height. 
Withdraw  their  summits  from  the  skies. 
And  lessen  as  the  others  rise. 
Still  the  prospect  wider  spreads. 
Adds  a  thousand  woods  and  meads ; 
Still  it  widens,  widens  still. 
And  sinks  the  newl}^  risen  hill. 

Now  I  gain  the  mountain's  brow ; 
What  a  landscape  lies  below  ! 
No  clouds,  no  va])ors  intervene; 
But  tlie  gay,  the  open  scene 
Does  the  face  of  Nature  show. 
In  all  the  hues  of  heaven's  bow  ! 
And,  swelling  to  embrace  the  light. 
Spreads  around  beneath  the  sight. 

Old  castles  on  the  cliSis  arise, 


JOHN   DYER. 


55 


Proudly  towering  in  the  skies ; 
Rushing  from  tlie  woods,  the  spires 
Seem  from  hence  ascending  fires ; 
Half  his  beams  Ajiollo  sheds 
On  the  yellow  mountain-heads, 
Gilds  the  fleeces  of  the  flocks, 
And  glitters  on  the  broken  rocks. 

Below  me  trees  unnumbered  rise, 
Beautiful  in  various  dyes  : 
The  gloomy  pine,  the  poplar  blue, 
The  yellow  beech,  the  sable  yew. 
The  slender  fir  that  taper  grows, 
The     sturdy    oak    with     broad-spread 

boughs ; 
And  beyond  the  purple  grove, 
Haunt  of  Phyllis,  queen  of  love ! 
Gaudy  as  the  opening  dawn, 
Lies  a  long  and  level  lawn. 
On  whicli  a  dark  hill,  steep  and  high, 
Holds  and  channs  the  wandering  eye. 
Deep  are  his  feet  in  Towy's  flood : 
His    sides    are    clothed    with    waving 

wood. 
And  ancient  towers  crown  his  brow, 
That  cast  an  awful  look  below ; 
Whose  ragged  walls  the  ivy  creeps, 
And  with  her  arms  from  falling  keeps  ; 
So  both  a  safety  from  the  wind 
In  mutual  dependence  find. 
'T  is  now  the  raven's  bleak  abode ; 
'T  is  now  the  apartment  of  the  toad ; 
And  there  the  fox  securely  feeds ; 
And  there  the  poisonous  adder  breeds. 
Concealed  in  ruins,  moss,  and  weeds ; 
While,  ever  and  anon,  there  fixll 
Huge  heaps  of  hoary  mouldered  wall. 
Yet  Time  has  seen,  —  that  lifts  the  low 
And  level  lays  the  lofty  brow,  — 
.Has  seen  this  broken  pile  complete, 
Big  with  the  vanity  of  state. 
Biit  transient  is  the  smile  of  Fate ! 
A  little  rule,  a  little  sway, 
A  sunbeam  in  a  winter's  day. 
Is  all  the  proud  and  mighty  have 
Between  the  cradle  and  the  grave. 

And  see  the  rivers  how  they  run. 
Through  woods  and  meads,  in  shade  and 

sun. 
Sometimes  swift,  sometimes  slow,  — 
Wave  succeeding  wave,  they  go 
A  various  journey  to  the  deep, 
Like  human  life  to  endless  sleep ! 
Thus  is  Nature's  vesture  wrought, 
To  instruct  our  wandering  thought : 
Thus  she  dresses  green  and  gay. 
To  disperse  our  cares  away. 

Ever  charming,  ever  new, 


When  will  the  landscape  tire  the  view ! 

The  fountain's  fall,  the  river's  flow; 

The  woody  valleys,  warm  and  low ; 

The  windy  summit,  wild  and  high. 

Roughly  rushing  on  the  sky ; 

The  pleasant  seat,  the  ruined  tower, 

The  naked  rock,  the  shady  bower ; 

The  town  and  village,  dome  and  farm,  — 

Each  gives  each  a  double  charm. 

As  pearls  upon  an  Ethiop's  arm. 

See  on  the  mountain's  southern  side, 
Wliere  the  prospect  opens  wide. 
Where  the  evening  gilds  the  tide ; 
How  close  and  small  the  hedges  lie ! 
What    streaks    of    meadow    cross    the 

eye!  _ 
A  step  methinks  may  pass  the  stream. 
So  little  distant  dangers  seem ; 
So  we  mistake  the  Future's  face, 
Ej'cd  through  Hope's  deluding  glass; 
As  yon  summits,  soft  and  fair. 
Clad  in  colors  of  the  air. 
Which  to  those  who  journey  near, 
Barren,  brown,  and  rough  appear ; 
Still  we  tread  the  same  coarse  way, 
The  present 's  still  a  cloudy  day. 

0,  may  I  with  myself  agi'ee, 
And  never  covet  what  I  see ; 
Content  me  with  an  humble  shade, 
My  passions  tamed,  my  wishes  laid; 
For  while  our  wishes  wildly  roll. 
We  banish  quiet  from  the  soul : 
'T  is  thus  the  busy  beat  the  air. 
And  misers  gather  wealth  and  care. 

Now,  even  now,  my  joys  run  high, 
As  on  the  mountain-turf  I  lie ; 
AVhile  the  wanton  Zephyr  sings. 
And  in  the  vale  perfumes  his  wings; 
While  tlie  waters  murmur  deep ; 
While  the  shepherd  charms  his  sheep ; 
While  the  birds  unbounded  fly. 
And  with  music  fill  the  sky, 
Now,  even  now,  my  jo3's  run  high. 

Be   full,    ye   courts ;    be   great   who 
will ; 
Search  for  Peace  with  all  your  skill : 
Open  wide  the  lofty  door. 
Seek  her  on  the  marble  floor. 
In  vain  you  search ;  she  is  not  there ! 
In  vain  you  search  the  domes  of  Care ! 
Grass  and  flowers  Quiet  treads. 
On  the  meads  and  mountain-heads. 
Along  with  Pleasure,  close  allied. 
Ever  by  each  other's  side ; 
And  often,  by  the  murmuring  rill. 
Hears  the  thnish,  while  all  is  still 
Within  the  groves  of  Grongar  HiU. 


56 


SONGS   OF  THKEE   CENTURIES, 


WILLIAM  HAMILTON. 

[1704-1754.] 

THE  BRAES  OF  YARROW. 

Busk  ye,   busk  ye,   my  bonny  bonny 

bride, 

Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  winsome  marrow  ! 

Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonny  bonny  bride. 

And  think  nae  mair  on  the  Braes  of 

Yarrow. 

"Where  gat  ye  that  bonny  bonny  bride? 

Where  gat  ye  that  winsome  marrow?" 
I  gat  her  where  I  darena  weil  be  seen, 

Pu'ing  the  birlvs  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

Weep  not,  weep  not,  my  bonny  bonny 
bride. 
Weep    not,    weep   not,   my  winsome 
marrow ! 
Nor  let  thy  heart  lament  to  leave 

Pu'ingthe  birksonthe  Braesof  Yarrow. 

"Why  does  she  weep,  thy  bonny  bonny 
bride  ? 
Why   does    she   weep,    thy  winsome 
marrow  ? 
And  why  dare  ye  nae  mair  weil  be  seen, 
Pu'ing  the  birks  on  the  Braes  of  Yar- 
row?" 

Lang  maun  she  weep,  lang  maun  she, 
maun  she  weep, 
Lang  maun  she  weep  with  dule  and  sor- 
row. 
And  lang  maun  I  nae  mair  weil  be  seen, 
Pu'ing  the  birks  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

For  she  has  tint  her  lover  lover  dear. 
Her  lover  dear,  the  cause  of  sorrow. 

And  I  hae  slain  the  comeliest  swain 
That  e'er  pu'ed  birks  on  the  Braes  of 
YaiTow. 

Why  runs  thy  stream,  0  Yarrow,  Yarrow, 
red  ? 
Why  on  thy  braes  heard  the  voice  of 
sorrow  ? 
And  why  yon  melancholious  weeds 
Hung  on  the  bonny  birks  of  Yarrow  ? 

What 's  yonder  floats  on  the  rueful  rueful 
flude  ? 
What's   yonder  floats?     0  dule  and 
sorrow ! 


'T  is  he,  the  comely  swain  I  slew 
Upon  the  duleful  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

Wash,  0,  wash  his  wounds,  his  wounds  in 

tears. 

His  wounds  in  tears  with  dule  and 

sorrow. 

And  wrap  his  limbs  in  mourning  weeds. 

And  lay  him  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

Then  build,  then  build,  ye  sisters  sisters 
sad. 

Ye  sisters  sad,  his  tomb  with  sorrow. 
And  weep  around  in  waeful  wise. 

His  helpless  fate  on  the  Biaes  of  Yarrow. 

Curse  ye,  curse  ye  his  useless  useless  shield, 
My  arm  that  wrought  the  deed  of  sorrow, 

The  fatal  spear  that  pierced  his  breast. 
His   comely  breast,  on  the  Braes   of 
Yarrow. 

Did  I  not  Avarn  thee  not  to  lo'e, 

And  warn  from  fight,  but  to  my  sorrow ; 

O'er  rashly  bauld  a  stronger  arm 

Thou  met'st,  and  fell  on  the  Braes  of 
Yarrow. 

Sweet  smells  the  birk,  green  grows,  gi-een 
grows  the  grass. 

Yellow  on  Yarrow  bank  the  gowan, 
Fair  hangs  the  ajjjile  frae  the  rock. 

Sweet  the  wave  of  Yarrow  flowan. 

Flows  Yarrow  sweet  ?  as  sweet,  as  sweet 
flows  Tweed, 

As  green  its  grass,  its  gowan  as  yellow. 
As  sweet  smells  on  its  braes  the  birk. 

The  apple  frae  the  rock  as  mellow. 

Fair  was  thy  love,  fair  fairindeed  thy  love, 
In  flowery  bands  thou  him  didst  fetter; 

Though  he  was  fair  and  weil  beloved  again, 
Than  me  he  never  lo'ed  thee  better. 

Busk  ye,  then  busk,  my  bonny  boimy 
bride. 
Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  winsome  marrow ! 
Busk  ye,  and  lo'e  me  on  the  banks  of 
Tweed, 
And  think  nae  mair  on  the  Braes  of 
Yarrow. 

"How  can  I  busk  a  bonny  bonny  bride. 
How  can  I  busk  a  winsome  marrow. 

How  lo'e  him  on  the  banks  of  Tweed, 
That  slew  my  love  on  the  Braes  of  Yar- 
row ? 


ISAAC  WATTS. 


67 


"0  Yarrow  fields !  may  never  never  rain 
Nor  dew  thy  tender  blossoms  cover, 

For  there  was  basely  slain  my  love, 
My  love,  as  he  had  not  been  a  lover. 

"  The  boy  put  on  his  robes,  his  robes  of 
green, 

His  purple  vest,  't  was  my  ain  sewing ; 
Ah !  wretched  me  !   I  little  little  kenned 

He  was  in  these  to  meet  his  ruin, 

"The  boy  took  out  his  milk-white  milk- 
white  steed, 

Unheedful  of  my  dule  and  sorrow, 
But  e'er  the  to-fall  of  the  night 

He  lay  a  corpse  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

"Much I  rejoiced  that  waeful  waeful  day ; 

I  sang,  my  voice  the  woods  returning. 
But  lang  ere  night  the  spear  was  flown 

That  slew  my  love,  and  left  me  mourn- 
ing. 

"What  can  my  barbarous  barbarous  fa- 
ther do, 
Rut  with  his  cruel  rage  pursue  me  ? 
My  lover's  blood  is  on  thy  spear, 

How  canst  thou,  barbarous  man,  then 
woo  me  ? 

"Myhapp}^  sistersmay  be,  maybe  proud ; 

With  cruel  and  ungentle  scotlin. 
May  bid  me  seek  on  Yarrow  Braes 

My  lover  nailed  in  his  coffin. 

"My  brother  Douglas  may  upbraid,  up- 
braid. 
And  strive  with  threatening  words  to 
move  me, 
My  lover's  blood  is  on  thy  spear, 

How  canst  thou  ever  bid  me  love  thee  ? 

"Yes,  yes,  prepare  the  bed,  the  bed  of  love, 
With  bridal  sheets  my  body  cover, 

Unbar,  ye  bridal  maids,  the  door. 
Let  in  the  expected  husband  lover. 

"But  who  the  expected  husband  hus- 
band is? 
His  hands,  methinks,  are  bathed  in 
slaughter. 
Ah  me !  what  ghastly  spectre  's  yon. 
Comes   in   his   pale  shroud,  bleeding 
after? 

"Pale  asheis,  here  lay  him,  lay  him  down, 
0,  lay  his  cold  head  on  my  pillow ; 


Take  aff,  take  aff  these  bridal  weeds. 
And  crown  my  careful  head  with  willow. 

"Pale  though  thou  art,  yet  best,  yet  best 
beloved, 

0,  could  my  warmth  to  life  restore  thee ! 
Ye  'd  lie  all  night  between  my  breasts. 

No  youth  lay  ever  there  before  thee. 

"Pale  pale,  indeed,  0  lovely  lovely  youth, 
Forgive,  forgive  so  foul  a  slaughter. 

And  lie  all  night  between  ray  breasts. 
No  youth  shall  ever  lie  there  after." 

Return,  return,  0  mournful  mournful 
bride, 

Eeturn  and  dry  thy  useless  sorrow : 
Thy  lover  heeds  naught  of  thy  sighs. 

He  lies  a  corpse  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 


ISAAC  WATTS. 

[1674- 1748.] 

THE  HEAVENLY  LAND. 

There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight, 
Where  saints  immortal  reign ; 

Infinite  day  excludes  the  night, 
And  pleasures  banish  pain. 

There  everlasting  spring  abides, 
And  never-withering  flowers ; 

Death,  like  a  narrow  sea,  divides 
This  heavenly  land  from  ours. 

Sweet  fields  beyond  the  swelling  flood 
Stand  dressed  in  living  green ; 

So  to  the  Jews  old  Canaan  stood. 
While  Jordan  rolled  between. 

But  timorous  mortals  start  and  shrink 

To  cross  this  narrow  sea. 
And  linger  shivering  on  the  brink, 

And  fear  to  launch  away. 

0,  could  we  make  our  doubts  remove. 
These  gloomy  doubts  that  rise. 

And  see  the  Canaan  that  we  love 
With  unbeclouded  eyes,  — 

Could  we  but  climb  where  Moses  stood. 
And  view  the  landscape  o'er, 

Not  Jordan's   stream,  nor  death's  cold 
flood, 
Should  fright  us  from  the  shore. 


58 


SONGS   OF  THEEE   CENTUKIES. 


PHILIP  DODDRIDGE. 
[1702- 1751.] 

YE  GOLDEN   LAMPS  OF  HEAVEN, 
FAREWELL ! 

Ye  golden  lamps  of  heaven,  farewell, 

With  all  your  feeble  light ! 
Farewell,  thou  ever-changing  moon, 

Pale  empress  of  the  night ! 

And  thou,  refulgent  orb  of  day, 

In  brighter  flames  arrayed  ; 
My  soul,  that  springs  beyond  thy  sphere, 

No  more  demands  thy  aid. 

Ye  stars  are  but  the  shining  dust 

Of  my  divine  abode ; 
The  pavement  of  those  heavenly  courts 

Where  I  shall  see  my  God. 

There  all  the  millions  of  his  saints 

Shall  in  one  song  unite  ; 
And  each  the  bliss  of  all  shall  view, 

With  infinite  delight. 


CHARLES  WESLEY. 

[1708- 1788.] 

JESUS,   LOVER  OF  MY  SOUL. 

Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul, 

Let  me  to  thy  bosom  fly. 
While  the  nearer  waters  roll, 

W^hile  the  tempest  still  is  high  : 
Hide  me,  0  my  Saviour,  hide. 

Till  the  storm  of  life  be  past ; 
Safe  into  the  haven  guide, 

0,  receive  my  soul  at  last ! 

Other  refuge  have  I  none, 

Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  thee ; 
Leave,  ah  !  leave  me  not  alone. 

Still  support  and  comfort  me: 
All  my  trust  on  thee  is  stayed. 

All  my  help  from  thee  I  bring; 
Cover  my  defenceless  head 

With  the  shadow  of  thy  wing. 

Thou,  0  Christ,  art  all  I  want ; 

More  than  all  in  thee  I  find : 
Eaise  the  fallen,  cheer  the  faint. 

Heal  the  sick,  and  lead  the  blind ; 


Just  and  holy  is  thy  name, 
I  am  all  unrighteousness ; 

False  and  full  of  sin  I  am. 

Thou  art  full  of  truth  and  grace. 

Plenteous  grace  with  thee  is  found, 

Grace  to  cover  all  my  sin  ; 
Let  the  healing  streams  abound, 

]\Iake  and  keep  me  pure  within : 
Thou  of  life  the  fountain  art ; 

Freely  let  me  take  of  thee  ; 
Spring  thou  up  within  my  heart, 

Else  to  all  eternity. 


AUGUSTUS  M.  TOPLADY. 
[1740- 1778.] 

LOVE  DIVINE,  ALL  LOVE  EXCELLING. 

Love  divine,  all  love  excelling, 

Joy  of  heaven  to  earth  come  down ; 
Fix  in  us  thy  humble  dwelling, 

All  thy  faithful  mercies  crown ; 
Jesus,  thou  art  all  compassion  ! 

Pure,  imbounded  love  thou  art ; 
Visit  us  with  thy  salvation. 

Enter  every  trembling  heart. 

Breathe,  0,  breathe  thy  lo\ang  Spirit 

Into  every  troubled  breast ; 
Let  us  all  in  thee  inherit, 

Let  us  find  the  promised  rest ; 
Take  awaj--  the  love  of  sinning, 

Alpha  and  Omega  be ; 
End  of  faith,  as  its  beginning, 

Set  our  hearts  at  liberty. 

Come,  almighty  to  deliver, 

Let  us  all  thy  life  receive ; 
Suddenly  return,  and  never. 

Never  more  thy  temples  leave  : 
Thee  we  would  be  always  blessing, 

Serve  thee  as  thy  hosts  above; ; 
Pray  and  praise  thee  without  ceasing, 

Glory  in  thy  precious  love. 

Finish  then  thy  new  creation, 

Pure,  unspotted  may  we  be ; 
Let  us  see  thy  great  salvation 

Perfectly  restored  by  thee : 
Changed  from  glory  into  glory. 

Till  in  heaven  we  take  our  place ! 
Till  we  cast  our  crowns  befon?  thee, 

Lost  in  wonder,  love,  and  praise. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. — WILLIAM   SHENSTONE. 


59 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 

[1709- 1784.] 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DR.  LEVETT. 

Condemned  to  hope's  delusive  mine, 
As  on  we  toil  from  day  to  day, 

By  sudden  blasts,  or  slow  decline, 
Our  social  comforts  drop  away. 

Well  tried  through  many  a  varying  year. 
See  Levett  to  the  grave  descend. 

Officious,  innocent,  sincere, 
Of  every  friendless  name  the  friend. 

Yet  still  he  fills  affection's  eye. 
Obscurely  wise  and  coarsely  kind ; 

Nor,  lettered  arrogance,  deny 
Thy  praise  to  merit  unrefined. 

When  fainting  nature  called  for  aid. 
And    hovering    death    prepared    the 
blow, 

His  vigorous  remedy  displayed 

The  power  of  art  without  the  show. 

In  misery's  darkest  cavern  known. 
His  useful  care  was  ever  nigh, 

Where  hopeless  anguish  poured  his  groan. 
And  lonely  want  retired  to  die. 

No  summons  mocked  by  chill  delay, 
No  petty  gain  disdained  by  pride ; 

The  modest  wants  of  every  day 
The  toil  of  every  day  supplied. 

His  -virtues  walked  their  narrow  round, 
Nor  made  a  pause,  nor  left  a  void ; 

And  sure  the  Eternal  Master  found 
The  single  talent  well  employed. 

The  busy  day,  the  peaceful  night, 
Unfelt,  uncounted,  glided  by ; 

His   frame  was   firm,  his  powers    were 
bright. 
Though  now  his  eightieth  year  was  nigh. 

Then  with  no  fiery  throbbing  pain. 
No  cold  gradations  of  decay. 

Death  broke  at  once  the  vital  chain, 
And  freed  his  soul  the  nearest  way. 


WILLIAM  SHENSTONE. 

[1714-1763.] 

THE    SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

Her  cap,  far  whiter  than  the  driven 

snow, 
Emblem  right  meet  of  decency  does 

yield : 
Her  apron  dyed  in  grain,  as  blue,  I 

trowe, 
As   is  the  harebell   that   adorns   the 

field : 
And  in  her  hand,  for  sceptre,  she  does 

wield 
Tway   birchen  sprays;    with  anxious 

fear  entwined. 
With  dark  distmst,  and  sad  repent- 
ance filled; 
And  steadfast  hate,  and  sharp  affliction 

joined. 
And  fury  uncontrolled,  and  chastisement 

unkind. 

A  russet  stole  was  o'er  her  shoulders 

thrown ; 
A  russet  kirtle  fenced  the  nipping  air : 
'T  was  simple  russet,  but  it  was  her 

own ; 
'T  was  her  own  country  bred  the  flock 

so  fair, 
'T  was   her  own  labor  did  the  fleece 

prepare ; 
And,  sooth  to  say,  her  pupils,  ranged 

around. 
Through  pious  awe,  did  term  it  passing 

rare ; 
For    they    in    gaping    wonderment 

abound. 
And  think,  no  doubt,  she  been  the  great- 
est wight  on  ground. 

Albeit   ne   flattery   did   corrupt   her 

truth, 
Ne  pompous  title  did  debauch  her  ear ; 
Goody,   good-woman,   gossip,  n'  aunt 

forsootli. 
Or  dame,  the  sole  additions  she  did 

hear; 
Yet   these  she  challenged,  these  she 

held  right  dear : 
Ne  would  esteem  him  act  as  mought 

behove, 
Who  should  not  honored  eld  with  these 

revere : 


60 


SONGS   OF  THEEE   CENTUEIES. 


For  never  title  yet   so  mean  could 
prove, 
But  there  was  eke  a  mind  which  did  that 
title  love. 

One  ancient  hen  she  took  delight  to 

feed, 
The  plodding  pattern  of  the  busy  dame ; 
Which,  ever   and  anon,   impelled  by 

need, 
Into  her  school,  begirt  with  chickens, 

came ! 
Such  favor  did  her  past  deportment 

claim : 
And,  if  Neglect  had  lavished  on  the 

ground 
Fragment  of  bread,  she  would  collect 

the  same ; 
For  well  she  knew,  and  quaintly  could 

expound, 
What  sin  it  were  to  waste  the  smallest 

crumb  she  found. 

Herbs  too  she  knew,  and  well  of  each 

could  speak 
That  in  her  garden  sipped  the  silvery 

dew ; 
Where  no  vain  flower  disclosed  a  gaudy 

streak ; 
But  herbs  for  use,  and  physic,  not  a 

few. 
Of  gray  renown,  within  those  borders 

grew : 
The  tufted  basil,  pun-provoking  thyrne. 
Fresh  baum,  and  marygold  of  cheerful 

hue ; 
The  lowly  gill,  that  never  dares  to 
climb;  .   . 

And  more  1  fain  would  sing,  disdammg 
here  to  rhyme. 


THOMAS  GEAY. 

[1716-1771.] 

ELEGY   WRITTEN    IN   A   COUNTRY 
CHURCHYARD. 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea ; 
The    ploughman    homeward  plods   his 

weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to 


Yet  euphrasy  may  not  be  left  unsung. 
That  gives  dim  eyes  to  wander  leagues 

around,  , 

And   pungent  radish,  biting  infants 

tongue, 
And  plantain  ribbed,  that  heals  the 

reaper's  wound. 
And   marjoram   sweet,  in  shepherds 

posy  found. 
And  lavender,  whose  spikes  of  azure 

bloom  _ 

Shall   be,   erewhile,    m   and  bundles 

bound, 
To  lurk  amidst  the  labors  of  her  loom, 
And   crown    her    kerchiefs   clean   with 

miclde  rare  perfume. 


Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on 

the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning 

flight. 
And   drowsy   tinklings  lidl  the  distant 

folds ; 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 

The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  com- 
plain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret 
bower. 

Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew- 
tree's  shade, 

Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  moul- 
dering heap. 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing 
morn. 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw- 
built  shed,  . 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing 
horn,  . 

No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their 
lowly  bed. 


For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth 

shall  burn. 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care ; 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to 

share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 
Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has 
broke ; 


THOMAS    GEAY. 


61 


How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team 

atield  ! 
How  bowed   the   woods  beneath  their 

sturdy  stroke ! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure ; 
Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a   disdainful 

smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power,  , 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er 

gave. 
Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour;  — 
The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  gi-ave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the 

fault. 
If  memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies 

raise, 
"Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and 

fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of 

praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to   its   mansion   call   the   fleeting 

breath? 
Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust. 
Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of 

Death? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 
Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial 

fire; 
Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have 

swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre  : 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample 

page, 
Kich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er 

unroll ; 
Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark,  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean 
bear ; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  un- 
seen. 

And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that  with  daunt- 
less breast 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood ; 


Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton  here  may 
rest ; 

Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  coun- 
try's blood. 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  com- 
mand. 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise. 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land. 
And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their    lot   forbade :    nor    circumscribed 

alone 
Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes 

confined ; 
Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a 

throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind ; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth 

to  hide. 
To   quench   the    blushes   of  ingenuous 

shame, 
Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 
With  incense   kindled    at    the   Muse's 

flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble 

strife 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray ; 
Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their 

way. 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  pro- 
tect. 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless 
sculpture  decked. 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,   their  years,  spelt  by  the 

unlettered  Muse, 
The  place  of  fame  and  eleg}'  supply ; 
And  many  a  holy  text  aroimd  she  strews, 
That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful 

day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  be- 
hind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul 
relies, 

Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  re- 
quires ; 


62 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTUEIES. 


E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature 

cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  the  unhon- 
ored  dead, 

Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  re- 
late; 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inq^uire  thy 
fate, 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say  : 
' '  Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  pee[)  of  dawn. 
Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away. 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn ; 

"There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding 

beech. 
That  wreathes  its  old,  fantastic  roots  so 

high, 
His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he 

stretch. 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles 

by. 

"Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in 
scorn, 

Muttering  his  way  ward  fancies,  he  would 
rove ; 

Now  drooping,  woful-wan,  like  one  for- 
lorn, 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hope- 
less love. 

"One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  cus- 
tomed hill. 

Along  tlie  heath,  and  near  his  favorite 
tree  ; 

Another  came,  — nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was 
he; 

"The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array. 
Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we 

saw  him  borne ;  — 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read) 

the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged 

thorn." 

THE  EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth, 
A   youtli    to  fortune   and   to  fame   un- 
known ; 


Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble 

birth, 
And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sin- 
cere ; 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send : 

He  gave  to  Misery  (all  he  had)  a  tear  ; 

He  gained  from  Heaven  ('t  was  all  he 
wished)  a  friend. 

No  further  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread 
abode : 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  re- 
pose,) 

The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


ODE    ON    A    DISTANT  PROSPECT    OF 
ETON  COLLEGE. 

Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers, 

That  crown  the  watery  glade. 
Where  grateful  Science  still  adores 

Her  Henry's  holy  shade ; 
And  ye,  that  from  the  stately  brow 
Of  Windsor's  heights  the  expanse  below 
Of  grove,  of  lawn,  of  mead  survey ; 

Whose  turf,  whose  shade,  whose  flow- 
ers among 

Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 
His  silver-winding  way ! 

Ah,  happy  hills !  ah,  pleasing  shade ! 

Ah,  fields  beloved  in  vain  ! 
Where  once  my  careless  chUdhood  strayed, 

A  stranger  yet  to  pain : 
I  feel  the  gales  that  from  ye  blow 
A  momentary  bliss  bestow. 
As,  waving  fresh  their  gladsome  wing, 

My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  soothe, 

And,  redolent  of  joy  and  youth, 
To  breathe  a  second  spring. 

Say,  Father  Thames,  for  thou  hast  seen 

Full  many  a  sprightly  race. 
Disporting  on  thy  margent  green. 

The  paths  of  jileasurc  trace, 
Who  foremost  now  delight  to  cleave 
With  pliant  arm  thy  glassy  wave  ? 
The  captive  linnet  wliich  inthrall? 

What  idle  progeny  succeed 

To  chase  the  I'olling  circle's  speed, 
Or  urge  the  fiyiug  ball  ? 


WILLIAM   COLLINS. 


63 


While  some,  on  earnest  business  bent, 

Their  niurniuriiig  labors  ply 
'Gainst  graver  hours,  that  bring  constraint 

To  sweeten  liberty, 
Some  bold  adventurers  disdain 
The  limits  of  their  little  reign. 
And  iinknown  regions  dare  descry : 

Still  as  they  run,  they  look  behind ; 

They  hear  a  voice  in  every  wind, 
And  snatch  a  fearful  joy. 

Gay  hope  is  theirs,  by  fancy  fed, 
Less  pleasing  when  possessed ; 

Tlie  tear  forgot  as  soon  as  shed, 
The  sunshine  of  the  breast. 

Tlieirs  buxom  healtli  of  rosy  hue, 

Wild  wit,  invention  ever  new. 

And  lively  cheer  of  vigor  born  ; 

The  thoughtless  day,  the  easy  night. 
The  spirits  pure,  the  slumbers  light, 

That  fly  the  approach  of  morn. 

Alas !  regardless  of  their  doom. 

The  little  victims  play ; 
No  sense  have  they  of  ills  to  come, 

Nor  care  beyond  to-day ; 
Yet  see  how  all  around  them  wait 
The  ministers  of  human  fate, 
And  black  Misfoitune's  baleful  train. 

Ah!    show   them   where  in    ambush 
stand. 

To  seize  their  prey,  the  murtherous 
band; 
Ah,  tell  them  they  are  men  ! 

These  shall  the  fury  passions  tear, 

The  vultures  of  the  mind. 
Disdainful  Anger,  pallid  Fear, 

And  Shame,  that  skulks  beliind ; 
Or  pining  Love  shall  waste  their  youth. 
Or  .Jealousy  with  rankling  tooth. 
That  inly  gnaws  the  secret  heart ; 

And  Envy  wan,  and  faded  Care, 

Grim-visaged,  comfortless  Despair, 
And  Sorrow's  piercing  dart. 

Ambition  this  shall  tempt  to  rise. 

Then  whirl  the  wretch  from  high, 
To  bitter  Scorn  a  sacrifice, 

And  grinning  Infamy. 
The  stings  of  Falsehood  those  shall  try. 
And  hard  Unkindness'  altered  eye, 
That  mocks  the  tear  it  forced  to  flow ; 
And  keen  Remorse  with  blood  defiled. 
And  moody  IMadness  laughing  wild 
Amid  severest  woe. 


Lo  !  in  the  vale  of  years  beneath. 

A  grisly  troop  are  seen, — 
The  painful  family  of  Death, 

More  hideous  than  their  queen : 
This  racks  the  joints,  this  fires  the  veins, 
That  every  laboring  sinew  stiuins. 
Those  in  the  deeper  vitals  rage : 

Lo  !  Poverty,  to  fill  the  band. 

That  numbs  the  soul  with  icy  hand ; 
And  slow-consuming  Age. 

To  each  his  suff'erings  :  all  are  men, 

Condemned  alike  to  groan  ; 
The  tender  for  ajiother's  pain. 

The  unfeeling  for  his  own. 
Yet,  ah !    why  should  they  know  their 

fate. 
Since  sorrow  never  comes  too  late, 
And  hapjiiness  too  swiftly  flies  ! 

Thought  would  destroy  their  paradise. 

No  more ;  where  ignorance  is  bhss, 
'T  is  folly  to  be  wise. 


WILLIAM  COLLINS. 
[1720- 1756.] 

DIRGE  IN  CYMBELINE. 

To  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb 

Soft  maids  and  village  hinds  shall  bring 
Each  opening  sweet  of  earliest  bloom. 

And  rifle  aU  the  breathing  spring. 

No  wailing  ghost  shall  dare  appear 
To  vex  with  shrieks  this  quiet  grove ; 

But  shepherd  lads  assemble  here. 
And  melting  virgins  own  their  love. 

No  withered  witch  shall  here  be  seen, 
No  goblins  lead  their  nightly  crew ; 

But  female  fays  shall  haunt  the  green. 
And  dress  thy  grave  with  pearly  dew. 

The  redbreast  oft  at  evening  hours 
Shall  kindly  lend  his  little  aid. 

With  hoary  moss  and  gathered  flowers 
To  deck  the  ground  where  thou  art  laid. 

When  howling  winds  and  beating  rain 
In  tempest  shake  the  sylvan  cell. 

Or  midst  the  chase  upon  the  plain, 
The  tender  thought  on  thee  shall  dwell. 


64 


SONGS   OF  THKEE   CENTURIES. 


Each  lonely  scene  shall  thee  restore, 
For  thee  the  tear  be  duly  shed ; 

Beloved  till  life  can  charm  no  more, 
And  mourned  till  Pity's  self  be  dead. 


ODE  TO  EVENING. 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop  or  pastoral  song 
May  hope,  chaste   Eve,  to   soothe   thy 
modest  ear, 
Like  thy  own  solemn  springs. 
Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales,  — 

0  nymph  reserved,  while  now  the  bright- 
haired  Sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy 
skirts, 
"With  braid  ethereal  wove, 
O'erhang  his  wavy  bed : 

Now  air  is  hushed,  save  where  the  weak- 
eyed  hat, 
"With  short,  shrill  shriek  flits  by  on  leath- 
ern wing; 
Or  where  the  beetle  winds 
His  small  but  sullen  horn, 

As  oft  he  rises  midst  the  twilight  path, 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum ; 
Now  teach  me,  maid  composed. 
To  breathe  some  softened  strain, 

Whose   ni;mbers,  stealing  through  thy 

darkening  vale, 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit ; 

As,  musing  slow,  I  hail 

Thy  genial,  loved  return  ! 

For  when  thy  folding-star  aiising  shows 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp, 
Tlie  fragrant  Hours,  and  Elves 
"Who  slept  in  buds  the  day, 

And  many  a  Nymph  who  wreathes  her 

brows  with  sedge, 
And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  love- 
lier still, 
The  pensive  Pleasures  sweet. 
Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then  let  me  rove  some  wild  and  heathy 

scene ; 
Or  find  some  ruin  midst  its  dreary  dells, 

Whose  walls  more  awful  nod 

By  thy  religious  gleams. 


Or,  if  chill,  blustering  winds,  or  driving 
rain. 

Prevent  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut 
That  from  the  mountain's  side 
Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floods. 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discovered 

spires ; 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks 
o'er  all 
Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 
The  giadual,  dusky  veil. 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as 

oft  he  wont, 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest 
Eve! 
While  Summer  loves  to  sport 
Beneath  thy  lingering  light ; 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with 

leaves ; 
Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous 
air. 
Affrights  thy  shrinking  train, 
And  rudely  rends  thy  robes,  — • 

So  long,  regardful  of  thy  quiet  rule. 
Shall  Fancy,  Friendship,  Science,  smiling 
Peace, 
Thy  gentlest  influence  own. 
And  love  thy  favorite  name ! 


JAMES  MERRICK. 

[1720- 1769.] 

THE  CHAMELEON. 

Oft  has  it  been  my  lot  to  mark 
A  proud,  coneeiteil,  talking  spark. 
With  eyes  that  hardly  served  at  most 
To  guard  their  master  'gainst  a  post ; 
Yet  round  the  world  the  blade  has  been. 
To  see  whatever  could  be  seen. 
Returning  from  his  finished  tour. 
Grown  ten  times  perter  than  before ; 
Whatever  word  you  chance  to  drop, 
The  travelled  fool  your  mouth  will  stop : 
"Sir,  if  my  judgment  you  '11  allow — 
I  've  seen  —  and  sure  I  ouglit  to  know." 
So  begs  you  'd  jiay  a  due  submission, 
And  acquiesce  in  his  decision. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


65 


Two  travellers  of  such  a  cast, 
As  o'er  Arabia's  wikls  they  passed, 
And  on  their  way,  in  friendly  chat, 
Now  talked  of  this,  and  then  of  that. 
Discoursed  awhile,   'mongst  other  mat- 
ter. 
Of  the  chameleon's  form  and  nature. 
"A  stranger  animal,"  cries  one, 
"Sure  never  lived  beneath  the  sun: 
A  lizard's  body,  lean  and  long, 
A  fish's  head,  a  serpent's  tongue. 
Its  foot  with  triple  claw  disjoined ; 
And  what  a  length  of  tail  behind  ! 
How  slow  its  pace !  and  then  its  hue — 
Who  ever  saw  so  fine  a  blue  ? " 

"Hold  there,"  the  other  quick  replies; 
"'T  is  green,  I  saw  it  with  these  eyes, 
As  late  with  open  mouth  it  lay, 
And  warmed  it  in  the  sunny  ray  ; 
Stretched  at  its  ease  the  beast  I  viewed. 
And  saw  it  eat  the  air  for  food." 

"I  've  seen  it,  sir,  as  well  as  you, 
And  must  again  affirm  it  blue ; 
At  leisure  I  the  beast  surveyed 
Extended  in  the  cooling  shade." 

"'T  is  green,  't  is  green,  sir,  I  assure 

ye." 

"Green  !"  cries  the  other  in  a  fury; 
"Why,  sir,  d'ye  think   I've  lost  my 

eyes?" 
"  'T  were  no  great  loss,"  the  friend  replies ; 
"For  if  they  always  serve  you  thus, 
You  '11  find  them  but  of  little  use." 

So  high  at  last  the  contest  rose. 
From  words  they  almost  came  to  blows : 
When  luckily  came  by  a  third ; 
To  him  the  question  they  referred. 
And  begged  he  'd  tell  them,  if  he  knew. 
Whether  the  thing  was  green  or  blue. 
"Sirs,"  cries  the  lunpire,  "cease  your 

pother ; 
The  creature  's  neither  one  nor  t'  other. 
I  caught  the  animal  last  night, 
And  viewed  it  o'er  by  candlelight ; 
I  marked  it  well,  't  was  black  as  jet — 
You  stare — but,  sirs,  I  've  got  it  yet, 
And  can  produce  it." —  "Pray,  sir,  do; 
I  '11  lay  my  life  the  thing  is  blue." 
"And  I  '11  be  sworn,  that  when  you  've 

seen 
The  reptile,  you  '11  pronounce  him  green." 
"Well,  then,  at  once  to  ease  the  doubt," 
Eeplies  the  man,  "I  '11  turn  him  out ; 
And  when  before  your  eyes  I  've  set  him, 
If  you  don't  find  him  black,  I  '11  eat  him. " 

He  said ;  and  full  before  their  sight 
Produced  the  beast,  andlo ! — 'twaswhlte. 


Both  stared;  the  man  looked  wondrous 

wise  — 
"My  children,"  the  chameleon  cries 
(Then  first  the  creature  found  a  tongue), 
"You  all  are  right,  and  all  are  wrong : 
When  next  you  talk  of  what  you  view, 
Think  others  see  as  well  as  you ; 
Nor  wonder  if  you  find  that  none 
Prefers  your  eyesight  to  his  own." 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

[172S-1774.] 

FROM  "THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE." 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft,  at 

evening's  close 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose ; 
There,  as  I  passsed  with  careless  steps  and 

slow. 
The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from 

below ; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milkmaid 

sung, 
The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to  meet  their 

young ; 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool. 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from 

school ; 
The   watch-dog's  voice  that  bayed  the 

whispering  wind. 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant 

mind, — 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the 

shade. 
And  filled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had 

made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail. 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the 

gale. 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway 

tread. 
But  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled. 
All  but  yon  widowed,  solitary  thing, 
That   feebly   bends   beside    the    plashy 

spring ; 
She,  wi'etched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for 

bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses 

spread. 
To  pick  her  wintry  fagot  from  the  thorn, 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till 

morn; 


66 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTUEIES. 


She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the 

garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden   flower 

grows  wild, 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place 

disclose. 
The   village  preacher's  modest  mansion 

rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear. 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a 

year ; 
Eemote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had   changed,  nor   wished  to 

change,  his  place ; 
Unpractised  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power. 
By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying 

hour ; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to 

prize, 
More  skilled  to  raise  the  wretched  than 

to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant 

train. 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved 

their  pain ; 
The    long-remembered    beggar   was   his 

guest, 
Whose  lieai-d  descending  swept  his  aged 

breast ; 
The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer 

proud. 
Claimed    kindred    there,    and   had   his 

claims  allowed  ; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay. 
Sat  by  his   fire,  and   talked   the   night 

away ; 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or  tales  of  sorrow 

done. 
Shouldered  his  cnitch,  and  showed  how 

fields  were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man 

learned  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  tiheir  vices  in  their  woe ; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to 

scan. 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his 

pride. 
And  even  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's 

side : 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watclied  and  wept,  he  prayed   and 

felt  for  all ; 


And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment 

tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  off"spring  to  the 

skies. 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved   each   dull 

delay, 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the 

way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was 

laid. 
And   sorrow,  guilt,  and   pain  by  turns 

dismayed, 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his 

control. 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling 

soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch 

to  raise. 
And  his  last,  faltering  accents  whispered 

j)raise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected 

grace. 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double 

sway. 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff",  remained 

to  jtray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran  ; 
Even  children  followed,  with  endearing 

wile, 
And  plucked  his  gown,  to  share  the  good 

man's  smile. 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  ex- 

jiressed. 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares 

distressed ; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs, 

were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in 

heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff",  that  lifts  its  awful  foiTn, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves 

the  storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds 

are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts 
the  way, 
AVith  blossomed  furze  unprofitably  gay, 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  liis  little  scliool. 
A  man  severe  lie  was,  and  stern  to  view ; 
1  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew : 


THOMAS   PERCY. 


67 


Well  had  the  boding  tremHers  learned 

to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face  ; 
Full  well  they  laughed,  with  counterfeited 

glee, 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  cii-cling  round. 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings    when  he 

frowned. 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or  if  severe  in  aught. 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 
The  village   all  declared  how  much  he 

knew ; 
'T  was  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher 

too; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  times  and  tides 

presage. 
And  even  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge ; 
In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill, 
For,  even  though  vanquished,  he  could 

argue  still ; 
While  words  of  learned  length  and  thun- 
dering sound 
Amazed thegazingrustics  ranged  around ; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder 

grew 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he 

knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame.    The  very  spot 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed  is  for- 
got. 
Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on 

high. 
Where   once   the   sign-post   caught  the 

passing  eye. 
Low  lies  that   house   where  nut-brown 

draughts  inspired. 
Where  gray-beard  mirth  and  smiling  toil 

retired. 
Where    village    statesmen  talked   with 

looks  profound. 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went 

round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlor  splendors  of  that  festive  place  : 
The  whitewashed  wall ;  the  nicely  sanded 

floor; 
The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind 

the  door; 
The  chest,  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by 

day; 
The  pictures  placed   for  ornament  and 

use; 
The  twelve  good  rules ;  the  royal  game  of 

goose ; 


The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled 
the  day. 

With  aspen  boughs  and  flowers  and  fen- 
nel gay ; 

While  broken  teacups,  wisely  kept  for 
show. 

Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a 
row. 

Vain,  transitory  splendors !  could  not 

aU 
Eeprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its 

fall? 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's 

heart ; 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care ; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's 

tale. 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  pre- 
vail; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall 

clear, 
Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  lean 

to  hear. 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round ; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  prest, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 


THOMAS  PERCY. 
[1728- 1811.] 

THE  FRIAR  OF  ORDERS  GRAY. 

It  was  a  friar  of  orders  gray 
Walked  forth  to  tell  his  Iieads, 

And  he  met  with  a  lady  fair, 
Clad  in  a  pilgrim's  weeds. 

"Now  Christ  thee  save,  thou  reverend 
friar ! 

I  pray  thee  tell  to  me. 
If  ever  at  yon  holy  shrine 

My  true-love  thou  didst  see." 

"And  how  should  I  know  your  true-love 

From  many  another  one?" 
"Oh !  by  his  cockle  hat,  and  staff, 

And  by  his  sandal  shoon ; 


68 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


"  But  chiefly  by  liis  face  and  mien, 

That  were  so  fair  to  view, 
His  flaxen  locks  that  sweetly  curled, 

And  eyes  of  lovely  blue." 

"0  lady,  he  is  dead  and  gone ! 

Lady,  he  's  dead  and  gone  ! 
And  at  his  head  a  green  grass  turf, 

And  at  his  heels  a  stone. 

"Within  these  holy  cloisters  long 

He  languished,  and  he  died. 
Lamenting  of  a  lady's  love. 

And  'plaining  of  her  pride, 

"  Here  bore  him  barefaced  on  his  bier 

Six  proper  youths  and  tall ; 
And  many  a  tear  bedewed  his  grave 

Within  yon  kirk  yard  wall." 

"And  art  thou  dead,  thou  gentle  youth  ? 

And  art  thou  dead  and  gone  ? 
And  didst  thou  die  for  love  of  me  ? 

Break,  cruel  lieart  of  stone  !" 

"0,  weep  not,  lady,  weep  not  so; 

Some  ghostly  comfort  seek : 
Let  not  vain  sorrow  rive  thy  heart. 

Nor  tears  bedew  thy  cheek." 

"  0  do  not,  do  not,  holy  friar. 

My  sorrow  now  reprove ; 
For  I  have  lost  the  sweetest  youth 

That  e'er  won  lady's  love. 

"  And  now,  alas !  for  thy  sad  loss 
I  '11  evermore  weep  and  sigh ; 

For  thee  I  only  wished  to  live. 
For  thee  I  wish  to  die," 

"Weep  no  more,  lady,  weep  no  more ; 

Thy  sorrow  is  in  vain  : 
For  violets  plucked,  the  sweetest  shower 

Will  ne'er  make  gi'ow  again. 

"  Our  joys  as  winged  dreams  do  fly ; 

Why  then  should  sorrow  last? 
Since  grief  but  aggravates  thy  loss. 

Grieve  not  for  what  is  past." 

"0,  say  not  so,  thou  holy  friar ! 

I  pray  thee  say  not  so ; 
For  since  my  true-love  diea  for  me, 

'T  is  meet  my  tears  should  flow. 

"And  will  he  never  come  again? 
Will  he  ne'er  come  again  ? 


Ah,  no  !  he  is  dead,  and  laid  in  his  grave, 
Foi'ever  to  remain. 

"  His  cheek  was  redder  than  the  rose, — 
The  comeliest  youth  was  he ; 

But  he  is  dead  and  laid  in  his  grave, 
Alas !  and  woe  is  me," 

' '  Sigh  no  more,  lady,  sigh  no  more, 

Men  were  deceivers  ever ; 
One  foot  on  sea  antl  one  on  land. 

To  one  thing  constant  never. 

"  Hadst  thou  been  fond,  he  had  been  false. 
And  left  thee  sad  and  heavy ; 

For  young  men  ever  were  fickle  found. 
Since  summer  trees  were  leafy." 

"Now  say  not  so,  thou  holy  friar, 

I  pray  thee  say  not  so ; 
My  love  he  had  the  truest  heart,  — 

0,  he  was  ever  true ! 

"And  art  thou  dead,  thou  much-loved 
youth. 

And  didst  thou  die  for  me? 
Then  farewell  home ;  forevermore 

A  pilgrim  I  will  be. 

"  But  first  upon  my  true-love's  grave 

My  wear}^  limbs  I  '11  lay, 
And  thrice  I  '11  kiss  the  green  grass  turf 

That  wraps  his  breathless  clay." 

"Yet  stay,  fair  lady,  rest  awhile 

Beneath  this  cloister  wall ; 
The  cold  wind  through  the  hawthorn 
blows, 

And  drizzly  rain  doth  fall." 

"0,  stay  me  not,  thou  holy  friar, 

0  stay  me  not,  I  pray  ; 
No  drizzly  rain  that  falls  on  me 

Can  wash  my  fault  away." 

"Yet  stay,  fair  lady,  turn  again. 

And  dry  those,f)early  tears ; 
For  see,  beneath  this  gown  of  gray 

Tliy  own  true-love  appears. 

"  Here,  forced  by  grief  and  hopeless  love. 

These  holy  weeds  I  sought; 
And  here,  amid  these  lonely  walls. 

To  end  my  days  I  thought. 

"  But  haply,  for  my  year  of  grace 
la  not  yet  passed  away. 


WILLIAM  COWPER. 


69 


Slight  I  still  hope  to  win  thy  love, 
Ko  longer  would  I  stay." 

"Now  farewell  grief,  and  welcome  joy 

Once  more  unto  my  heart ; 
For  since  I  've  found  thee,  lovely  youth, 

We  nevermore  will  part." 


WILLIAM  COWPER. 
[1731- 1800.] 

LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL  GEORGE. 

Toll  for  the  brave ! 

The  brave  that  are  no  more ! 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave 

Fast  by  their  native  shore ! 

Eight  hundred  of  t^  brave, 
Whose  courage  will  was  tried, 

Had  made  the  vessel  heel. 
And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A  land-breeze  shook  the  shrouds 

And  she  was  overset ; 
Down  went  the  Royal  George, 

With  all  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave ! 

Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone ; 
His  last  sea-fight  is  fought, 

His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle ; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock ; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak, 

She  ran  upon  no  rock. 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath. 

His  fingers  held  the  pen, 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down 

With  twice  foui-  hundred  men. 

Weigh  the  vessel  up. 

Once  dreaded  by  our  foes ! 
And  mingle  with  our  cup 

The  tear  that  England  owes. 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound. 

And  she  may  float  again. 
Full  charged  with  England's  thunder. 

And  plough  the  distant  main. 


But  Kempenfelt  is  gone, 

His  victories  are  o'er ; 
And  he  and  his  eight  hundred 

Shall  plough  the  wave  no  more. 


LINES  TO  MY  MOTHER'S  PICTURE. 

0  THAT  those  lips  had  language !     Life 

has  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee 

last. 
Those  lips  are  thine,  —  thy  own  sweet 

smile  I  see, 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced 

me; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
' '  Grieve   not,  my  child ;  chase  all  thy 

fears  away  !" 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize, 
The  art  that  baflies  time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it !)  here  shines  on  me  still  the 

same. 
Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here ! 
Who  bid' St  me  honor  with  an  artless  song, 
Aff'ectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long. 

1  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone, 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own ; 
And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief. 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief, 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  revery, 
A  momentary  dream  that  thou  art  she. 
My  mother !  when  I  learned  that  thou 

wast  dead. 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I 

shed? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son. 
Wretch  even  then,   life's  journey  just 

begun  ? 
Perhaps  thou  gav'st  me,  though  unfelt,  a 

kiss; 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile !  it  answers  — 

Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day, 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  tliee  slow  away. 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window, 

drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu ! 
But  was  it  such  ?     It  was.     Where  thou 

art  gone, 
Adieusand  farewells  are  a  sound  unku  own . 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful 

shore, 


70 


SONGS   OF   THEEE   CENTURIES. 


The  parting  words  shall  pass  my  lips  no 

more ! 
Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my 

concern, 
Oft  gave  me  jjromise  of  thy  quick  return  ; 
Wliat  ardently  I  wished  1  long  believed, 
And,  disappointed  still,  wasstill  deceived  ; 
By  expectation  every  day  beguiled. 
Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and 

went, 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrows  spent, 
I  learned  at  last  submission  to  my  lot ; 
But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er 

forgot. 
Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard 

no  more, 
Children  not  thme  have  trod  my  nursery 

lloor ; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way, 
Delighted  with  my  bavvble   coach,  and 

wrapped 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  capped, 
'T  is  now  become  a  history  little  known, 
That  once  we  called  the  pastoral  house 

our  own. 
Short-lived  possession  !  but  the  record  fair. 
That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness 

there. 
Still   outlives   many  a   storm   that   has 

effaced 
A  thousand   other  themes   less   deeply 

traced. 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 
That   thou   mightst   know  me  safe  and 

warmly  laid, — 
All  this,  and,  more  endearing  still  than 

all. 
Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no 

fall, 
Ne'er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and 

breaks 
Thathumor  interposed  toooftenmakes,  — 
All  this,  still  legible  in  memory's  page, 
And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age. 
Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 
Such  honors  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may ; 
Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 
Not  scorned  in  heaven,  though  little  no- 
ticed here. 
Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore 

the  hours 
"When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued 

flowers. 
The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 
I  pricked  them  into  paper  with  a  pin, 


(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the 
while, 

Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my 
head,  and  smile,)  — 

Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  ap- 
pear. 

Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish 
them  here  ? 

I  would  not  trust  my  heart, — the  dear 
delight 

Seemssoto  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might. 

But  no, — what  here  we  call  our  life  is 
such, 

So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much, 

That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  con- 
strain 

Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 
Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion's 
coast 

(The  storms  all  weathered  and  the  ocean 
crossed) 

Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-havened 
isle. 

Where  spices  breathe  and  brighter  sea- 
sons smile ; 

There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods,  that 
show 

Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  be- 
low. 

While  airs  impregnated  with  incense 
play 

Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers 

gay>  — 

So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift !  hast 
reached  the  shore. 

Where  tempests  never  beat,  nor  billows 
roar  ; 

And  thy  loved  consort,  on  the  dangerous 
tide 

Of  life,  long  since  has  anchored  by  thy 
side. 

But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 

Always  from  port  withheld,  always  dis- 
tressed, — 

Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tem- 
pest-tossed. 

Sails  ripped,  seams  opening  wide,  and 
compass  lost; 

And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting 
force  .  " 

Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosperous 
course. 

Yet  0,  the  thought  that  thou  art  safe, 
and  he !  — 

That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to 
me. 

My  boast  is  not  that  I  deduce  my  birth 


WILLIAM   JULIUS   MICKLE. 


71 


From  loins  entlironed,  and  rulers  of  the 

earth ; 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions 

rise, — 
The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies. 
And  now,  farewell!  —  Time,  unrevoked, 

has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wished  is 

done. 
By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in 

vain, 
I  seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o'er 

again,  — 
To  have  renewed  the  joys  that  once  were 

mine 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine ; 
And  while  the  wings  of  Fancy  still  are 

free. 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee, 
Time   has   but   half    succeeded    in    his 

theft,  — 
Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me 

left. 


MYSTERIES  OF  PROVIDENCE. 

God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way 

His  wonders  to  perform ; 
He  plants  his  footsteps  in  the  sea, 

And  rides  upon  the  storm. 

Deep  in  unfathomable  mines 

Of  never-failing  skill, 
He  treasures  up  his  bright  designs, 

And  works  his  sovereign  will. 

Ye  fearful  saints,  fresh  courage  take ! 

The  clouds  ye  so  much  dread 
Are  big  with  mercy,  and  shall  break 

In  blessings  on  your  head. 

Judge  not  the  Lord  by  feeble  sense, 
But  trust  him  for  his  grace ; 

Behind  a  frowning  providence 
He  hides  a  smiling  face. 

His  purposes  will  ripen  fast, 

Unfolding  eveiy  hour ; 
The  bud  may  have  a  bitter  taste, 

But  sweet  will  be  the  Hower. 

Blind  unbelief  is  sure  to  err, 
And  scan  his  works  in  vain ; 

God  is  his  own  interpreter. 
And  he  will  make  it  plain. 


WILLIAM  JULIUS  MICKLE. 

[1734-17S8.] 

THE  MARINER'S  WIFE. 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true? 

And  are  ye  sure  he  's  weel  ? 
Is  this  a  time  to  think  0'  wark  ? 

Mak  haste,  lay  by  your  wheel ; 
Is  this  the  time  to  spin  a  tliread, 

When  Colin  's  at  the  door  ? 
Reach  down  my  cloak,  I  '11  to  the  quay, 

And  see  him  come  ashore. 
For  there  's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There 's  nae  luck  at  a' ; 
There  's  little  pleasure  in  the  house 

When  our  gudeman  's  awa'. 

And  gie  to  me  my  bigonet. 

My  bishop's  satin  gown ; 
For  i  maun  tell  the  baillie's  wife 

That  Colin  's  in  the  town. 
My  Turkey  slippers  maun  gae  on, 

My  stockings  pearly  blue ; 
It 's  a'  to  pleasure  our  gudeman, 

For  he  's  baith  leal  and  true. 

Rise,  lass,  and  mak  a  clean  fireside, 

Put  on  the  muckle  pot ; 
Gie  little  Kate  her  button  gown, 

And  Jock  his  Sunday  coat ; 
And  mak  their  shoon  as  black  as  slaes, 

Their  hose  as  white  as  snaw ; 
It 's  a'  to  please  my  ain  gudeman, 

For  he  's  been  lang  awa'. 

There  's  twa  fat  hens  upo'  the  coop. 

Been  fed  this  month  and  mair ; 
Mak  haste  and  thi'aw  their  necks  about, 

That  Colin  weel  may  fare  ; 
And  mak  our  table  neat  and  clean, 

Let  eveiything  look  braw, 
For  wha  can  tell  how  Colin  fared 

When  he  was  far  awa'  ? 

Sae  true  his  heart,  sae  smooth  his  speech, 

His  breath  like  caller  air ; 
His  very  foot  has  music  in 't 

As  he  comes  up  the  stair. 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak  ? 
I  'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought, 

In  troth  I  'm  like  to  greet ! 

The  caulel  blasts  o'  the  winter  wuid. 
That  thirled  through  my  heart. 


72 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


They  're  a'  blawn  by,  I  hae  him  safe, 
Till  death  we  '11  never  part ; 

But  what  puts  parting  in  my  head  ? 
It  may  be  far  awa' ! 

The  present  moment  is  our  ain. 
The  neist  we  never  saw. 

Since  Colin  's  weel,  and  weel  content, 

I  hae  nae  mair  to  crave ; 
And  gin  I  live  to  keej:)  him  sae, 

I  'm  blest  aboon  the  lave. 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak  ? 
I  'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought. 

In  troth  1  'm  like  to  greet. 
For  there 's  nae  luck  about  the  house. 

There  's  nae  luck  at  a' ; 
There  's  little  pleasure  in  the  house 

When  our  gudeman  's  awa'. 


JAMES  BEATTIB. 
[1735-1803.] 

THE  HERMIT. 

At  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  ham- 
let is  still, 

And  mortals  the  sweets  of  forgetfulness 
prove, 

AVhen  naught  but  the  torrent  is  heard 
on  the  hill, 

And  naught  but  the  nightingale's  song 
in  the  grove, 

'T  was  thus,  by  the  cave  of  the  moun- 
tain afar. 

While  his  harp  rung  symphonious,  a 
hermit  began ; 

No  more  with  himself  or  with  nature  at 
war. 

He  thought  as  a  sage,  though  he  felt  as 
a  man  ; 

"Ah!  why,  all  abandoned  to  darkness 
and  woe, 

W^hy,  lone  Philomela,  that  languishing 
fall  ? 

For  spring  shall  return,  and  a  lover  be- 
stow, 

And  sorrow  no  longer  thy  bosom  inthrall. 

But,  if  pity  inspire  thee,  renew  the  sad 
lay,— 

Mourn,  sweetest  complainer,  man  calls 
thee  to  mourn ; 


0,  soothe  him  whose  pleasures  like  thine 

pass  away  ! 
Full  quickly  they  pass, —  but  they  never 

return. 

' '  Now,  gliding  remote  on  the  verge  of  the 
sky, 

The  moon,  half  extinguished,  her  cres- 
cent displays ; 

But  lately  I  marked  when  majestic  on 
high 

She  shone,  and  the  planets  were  lost  in 
her  blaze. 

Roll  on,  thou  fair  orb,  and  with  glad- 
ness pursue 

The  path  that  conducts  thee  to  splendor 
again ! 

But  man's  faded  glory  what  change  shall 
renew  ? 

Ah,  fool !  to  exult  in  a  glory  so  vain ! 

"'Tis  night,  and  the  landscape  is  lovely 
no  more. 

I  mourn,  but,  ye  woodlands,  I  mourn 
not  for  you ; 

For  morn  is  approaching  your  charms  to 
restore. 

Perfumed  with  fresh  fragrance,  and  glit- 
tering with  dew. 

Nor  yet  for  the  ravage  of  winter  I  mourn,  — 

Kind  nature  the  embryo  blossom  will 
save; 

But  when  shall  spring  visit  the  moulder- 
ing urn  ? 

0,  when  shall  day  dawn  on  the  night  of 
the  grave  ? 

"  'T  was  thus,  by  the  glare  of  false  science 
betrayed, 

That  leads  to  bewilder,  and  dazzles  to 
blind, 

My  thoughts  wont  to  roam  from  shade 
onward  to  shade. 

Destruction  before  me,  and  sorrow  be- 
hind. 

'0  pity,  great  Father  of  light,'  then  I 
cried, 

'Thy  creature,  who  fain  would  not  wan- 
der from  thee ! 

Lo,  humbled  in  dust,  I  relinquish  my 
pride ; 

From  doubt  and  from  darkness  thou  only 
canst  free ! ' 

"And  darkness  and  doubt  are  now  flying 

away; 
No  longer  I  roam  in  conjecture  forlorn. 


JOHN"  LANGHORNE.  —  MES.  THRALE. 


V3 


So   breaks   on   the   traveller,  faint  and 

astray, 
The  bright  and  the  balmy  effulgence  of 

morn. 
See  truth,  love,  and  mercy  in  triumph 

descending, 
And  nature  all  glowing  in  Eden's  first 

bloom ! 
On  the  cold  cheek  of  death  smiles  and 

roses  are  blending. 
And  beauty  immortal  awakes  from  the 

tomb." 


JOM  LANanORNE. 

[1735-1779-] 

THE  DEAD. 

Of  them  who,  wrapt  in  earth  so  cold, 
No  more  the  smiling  day  shall  view, 

Should  many  a  tender  tale  be  told, 
For  many  a  tender  thought  is  due. 

Why  else  the  o'ergrown  paths  of  time 
Would  thus  the  lettered  sage  explore. 

With  pain  these  crumbling  ruins  climb. 
And  on  the  doubtful  sculpture  pore  ? 

Why  seeks  he  with  unwearied  toil, 
Through  Death's  dim  walks  to  urge  his 

Reclaim  his  long-asserted  spoil, 
And  lead  oblivion  into  day  ? 

'T  is  nature  prompts,  by  toil  or  fear. 
Unmoved,  to  range   through  Death's 
domain ; 

The  tender  parent  loves  to  hear 
Her  children's  story  told  again ! 


MES.  THEALE. 
[1740- 1822.] 

THE  THREE  WARNINGS. 

The  tree  of  deepest  root  is  found 
Least  willing  still  to  quit  the  ground ; 
'T  was  therefore  said  by  ancient  sages. 
That  love  of  life  increased  with  years 
So  much,  that  in  our  latter  stages, 


When  pains   glow  shai-p   and   sickness 
rages. 
The  greatest  love  of  life  appears. 
Tills  great  affection  to  believe. 
Which  all  confess,  but  few  perceive, 
If  old  assertions  can't  prevail, 
Be  pleased  to  hear  a  modern  tale. 

When  sports  went  round,  and  all  were 

gay. 

On  neighbor  Dodson's  wedding-day, 
Death  called  aside  the  jocund  groom 
With  him  into  another  room. 
And,  looking  grave,  "You  must,"  says 

he, 
"Quit  your  sweet  bride,  and  come  with 

me." 
"With  you !  and  quit  my  Susan's  side? 
With  you  ! "  the  hapless  husband  cried ; 
"Young  as  I  am,  'tis  monstrous  hard! 
Besides,  in  truth,  I  'm  not  prepared : 
My  thoughts  on  other  matters  go ; 
This  is  my  wedding-day,  you  know." 

What  more  he  urged  I  have  not  heard. 

His  reasons  could  not  well  be  stronger ; 
So  Death  the  poor  deliii(|uent  spared, 

And  left  to  live  a  little  longer. 
Yet  calling  uj)  a  serious  look, 
His  hour-glass  trembled  while  he  spoke. 
"Xeighbor,"  he  said,  "farewell !  no  more 
Shall  Death  disturb  your  mirthful  hour : 
And  further,  to  avoid  all  blame 
Of  cruelty  upon  my  name. 
To  give  you  time  for  preparation. 
And  fit  you  for  your  future  station. 
Three  several  warnings  you  shall  have, 
Before  you  're  summoned  to  the  grave ; 
Willing  for  once  I  '11  quit  my  prey. 

And  grant  a  kind  reprieve. 
In  hopes  j^ou  '11  have  no  more  to  say. 
But  when  I  call  again  this  way. 

Well  pleased  the  world  will  leave." 
To  these  conditions  both  consented, 
And  parted  perfectly  contented. 

What  next  the  hero  of  our  tale  befell. 
How  long  he  lived,  how  vase,  how  well, 
How  roundly  he  pursued  his  course, 
And  smoked  his  pipe,  and  stroked  his 
horse. 

The  willing  muse  shall  tell : 
He  chaffered,  then  he  bought  and  sold. 
Nor  once  perceived  his  growing  old. 

Nor  thought  of  Death  as  near : 
His  friends  not  false,  his  wife  no  shrew, 
Many  his  gains,  his  children  few. 


74 


SONGS   OF   THEEE   CENTURIES. 


He  passed  his  hours  in  peace. 
But  while  he  viewed  his  wealtli  increase, 
While  tlius  along  life's  dusty  road 
The  beaten  track  content  he  trod, 
Old  Time,  whose  haste  no  mortal  spares. 
Uncalled,  unheeded,  unawares. 

Brought  on  his  eightieth  year. 
And  now,  one  night,  in  musing  mood, 

As  all  alone  he  sate. 
The  unwelcome  messenger  of  Fate 

Once  more  before  him  stood. 

Half  killed  with  anger  and  surprise, 
*'So  soon  returned!"  Old  Dodson  cries. 
"So  soon,  d'  ye  call  it!"  Death  replies; 
"Surely,  my  friend,  you  're  but  in  jest ! 

Since  I  was  here  before 
'T  is  six-and-thirty  years  at  least, 

And  you  are  now  fourscore." 

"So  much  the  worse,"  the  clown  re- 
joined ; 

"To  spare  the  aged  would  be  kind: 

However,  see  your  search  be  legal ; 

And  your  authority,  —  is  't  regal  ? 

Else  you  are  come  on  a  fool's  errand, 

With  but  a  secretary's  warrant. 

Beside,  you  promised  me  three  warn- 
ings, 

Which  1  have  looked  for  nights  and 
mornings ; 

But  for  that  loss  of  time  and  ease 

I  can  recover  damages." 

"I  know,"  cries  Death,  "that  at  the 
best 
I  seldom  am  a  welcome  guest ; 
But  don't  be  captious,  friend,  at  least : 
I  little  thought  you  'd  still  be  able 
To  stump  about  your  farm  and  stable : 
Your  years  have  run  to  a  great  length  ; 
I  wish  you  joy,  though,  of  your  strength ! " 

"Hold,"  says  the  farmer,  "not  so  fast ! 
I  have  been  lame  these  four  years  past." 

' '  And  no  great  wonder, "  Death  replies : 
"However,  you  still  keep  your  eyes; 
And  sure  to  see  one's  loves  and  friends 
For  legs  and  arms  would  make  amends." 

"Perhaps,"  says  Dodson,  "soitmight, 
But  latterly  I  've  lost  my  sight." 

"  This  is  a  shocking  tale,  't  is  true ; 
But  still  there  's  comfort  left  for  you : 
Each  stiives  your  sadness  to  amuse  ; 
I  warrant  you  hear  all  the  news." 

"  There  's  none,"  cries  he ;  and  if  there 
were. 


I  'm  grown  so  deaf,  T  could  not  hear." 
"Nay,   then,"    the   spectre  stern  re- 
joined, 
"These  are  unjustifiable  yearnings: 
If  you  are  lame,  and  deaf,  and  blind. 
You  've     had     your    three    sufficient 
warnings ; 
So  come  along,  no  more  we  '11  part." 
He  said,  and  touched  him  with  his  dart. 
And  now  Old  Dodson,  turning  pale, 
Yields  to  his  fate,  —  so  ends  my  tale. 


AMA  L.  BAKBAULD. 

[1743-1825.] 

THE  SABBATH  OF  THE  SOUL. 

Sleep,  sleep  to-day,  tormenting  cares. 

Of  earth  and  folly  born ; 
Ye  shall  not  dim  the  light  that  streams 

From  this  celestial  morn. 

To-morrow  will  be  time  enough 

To  feel  your  harsh  control ; 
Ye  shall  not  violate,  this  day, 

The  Sabbath  of  my  soul. 

Sleep,  sleep  forever,  guilty  thoughts ; 

Let  fires  of  vengeance  die ; 
And,  purged  from  sin,  may  I  behold 

A  God  of  purity  I 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  VIRTUOUS. 

Sweet  is  the  scene  when  virtue  dies ! 

When  sinks  a  righteous  soul  to  rest, 
How  mildly  beam  the  closing  eyes, 

How  gently  heaves  the  expiring  breast  I 

So  fades  a  summer  cloud  away, 

So  sinks  the  gale  when  storms  are  o'er, 

So  gently  shuts  the  eye  of  day. 
So  dies  a  wave  along  the  shore. 

Triumphant  smiles  the  victor  brow. 
Fanned  by  some  angel's  purple  wing ;  — 

Where  is,  0  grave  !  thy  vit'tory  now  ? 
And    where,    insidious     death!     thy 
sting  ? 

Farewell,  conflii'ting  joys  and  fears. 
Where  light  and  shade  alternate  dwell ! 


SUSANNA  BLAmRE.  —  JOHN  LOGAN. 


75 


How  bright  the  unchanging  mom  ap- 
pears ;  — 
Farewell,  inconstant  world,  farewell ! 

Life's  labor  done,  as  sinks  the  day. 
Light  from  its  load  the  spirit  flies ; 

"While  heaven  an<l  earth  combine  to  saj'', 
"Sweet  is  the  scene  when  virtue  dies ! " 


LITE. 

Life  !  I  know  not  what  thou  art. 
But  know  that  thou  and  I  must  part ; 
And  when,  or  how,  or  where  we  met, 
I  own  to  me  's  a  secret  yet. 

Life !  we  've  been  long  together 
Through  pleasant  and   through  cloudy 

weather ; 
'T  is  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear,  — 
Perhaps  't  will  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear ; 
— Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning. 

Choose  thine  own  time ; 
Say   not   Good   Night,  —  but    in   some 
brighter  clime 

Bid  me  Good  Morning. 


SUSANNA  BLAMIRE. 

[1747 -1794.] 

WHAT  AILS  THIS  HEART  O'  MINE? 

What  ails  this  heart  o'  mine? 

What  ails  this  watery  ee  ? 
What  gars  me  a'  turn  pale  as  death 

When  I  take  leave  o'  thee  ? 
When  thou  art  far  awa'. 

Thou  'It  dearer  grow  to  me ; 
But  change  o'  place  and  change  0'  folk 

May  gar  thy  fancy  jee. 

"WTien  I  gae  out  at  e'en, 

Or  walk  at  morning  air. 
Ilk  rustling  bush  will  seem  to  say, 

I  used  to  meet  thee  there. 
Then  I  '11  sit  down  and  cry, 

And  live  aneath  the  tree. 
And  when  a  leaf  fa's  i'  my  lap, 

I  '11  ca'  't  a  word  frae  thee. 

I  '11  hie  me  to  the  bower 
That  thou  wi'  roses  tied. 


And  where  wi'  mony  a  blushing  bud 

I  strove  myself  to  hide. 
I  '11  doat  on  ilka  spot 

AVhere  I  ha'e  been  wi.'  thee ; 
Ami  ca'  to  mind  some  kindly  word, 

By  ilka  burn  and  tree. 


JOHN  LOGAN. 

[1748 -1783.] 

TO  THE  CUCKOO. 

Hail,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grove ! 

Thou  messenger  of  spiing ! 
Now  heaven  repairs  thy  rural  seat, 

And  woods  thy  welcome  sing. 

What  time  the  daisy  decks  the  gi-een. 

Thy  certain  voice  we  hear ; 
Hast  thou  a  star  to  guide  thy  path, 

Or  mark  the  rolling  year  ? 

Delightful  visitant !  with  thee 

I  hail  the  time  of  flowers, 
And  hear  the  sound  of  music  sweet 

From  birds  among  the  bowers. 

The  school-boy,  wandering  through  the 
wood 

To  pull  the  primrose  gay. 
Starts,  the  new  voice  of  spring  to  hear, 

And  imitates  thy  lay. 

What  time  the  pea  puts  on  the  bloom, 

Thou  fliest  thy  vocal  vale. 
An  annual  guest  in  other  lands. 

Another  spring  to  hail. 

Sweet  bird !  thy  bower  is  ever  green, 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear ; 
Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  song, 

No  winter  in  tliy  year ! 

0,  could  I  fly,  I  'd  fly  with  thee ! 

We  'd  make,  with  joyful  wing. 
Our  annual  visit  o'er  the  globe. 

Companions  of  the  spring. 


YARROW  STREAM. 

Tht  banks  were  bonnie,  Yarrow  stream, 
AVhen  first  on  thee  I  met  my  lover ; 
Thy  banks  how  dreary,  Yarrow  stream, 
When  now  thy  waves  his  body  cover  1 


76 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Forever  now,  0  Yarrow  stream, 
Tlioii  art  to  nie  a  stream  of  sorrow ; 
For  never  on  thy  banks  shall  I 
Behold  my  love,  —  the  flower  of  Yarrow ! 

He  promised  me  a  milk-white  horse, 
To  bear  me  to  his  father's  bowers ; 
He  promised  me  a  little  page, 
To  squire  me  to  his  father's  towers. 

He  promised  me  a  wedding-ring, 
The  wedding-day  was  fixed  to-morrow ; 
Now  he  is  wedded  to  his  grave, 
Alas !  a  watery  grave  in  Yarrow ! 

Sweet  were  his  words  when  last  we  met, 
My  passion  as  I  freely  told  him ; 
Clasped  in  his  arms,  I  little  thought 
That  I  should  nevermore  behold  him. 

Scarce  was  he  gone,  I  saw  his  ghost,  — 
It  vanished  with  a  shriek  of  sorrow; 
Thrice  did  the  Water  Wraith  ascend, 
And  give  a  doleful  groan  through  Yarrow ! 

His  mother  from  the  window  looked, 
With  all  the  longing  of  a  mother ; 
His  little  sister,  weeping,  walked 
The  greenwood  path  to  meet  her  brother. 

They  sought  him  east,  they  sought  him 

west, 
They  sought  him  all  the  forest  thorough ; 
They  only  saw  the  clouds  of  night, 
They  only  heard  the  roar  of  Yarrow ! 

No  longer  from  thy  window  look,  — 
Thou  hast  no  son,  thou  tender  mother ! 
No  longer  walk,  thou  lovely  maid,  — 
Alas !  thou  hast  no  more  a  brother ! 

No  longer  seek  him  east  or  west, 
No  longer  search  the  forest  thorough, 
For,  murdered  in  the  night  so  dark, 
He  lies  a  lifeless  corpse  in  Yarrow ! 

The  tears  shall  never  leave  my  cheek; 
No  other  youth  shall  be  my  marrow; 
I  '11  seek  thy  body  in  the  stream, 
And  there  with  thee  I  '11  sleep  in  Yarrow ! 

The  tear  did  never  leave  her  cheek  : 
No  other  yontli  became  her  marrow ; 
She  found  his  body  in  the  stream, 
Ajid  with  him  now  she  sleeps  in  Yarrow. 


UNKNOWN. 

BONNIE  GEORGE  CAMPBELL. 

Hie  upon  Hielands, 

And  low  upon  Tay, 
Bonnie  George  Oam])bell 

Kade  out  on  a  day. 
Saddled  and  bridled 

And  gallant  rade  he  ; 
Hame  came  his  gude  horse, 

But  never  came  he. 

Out  came  his  auld  mither 

Greeting  fu'  sair, 
And  out  came  his  bonnie  bride 

Rivin'  her  hair. 
Saddled  and  bridled 

And  booted  rade  he ; 
Toom  hame  came  the  saddle, 

But  never  came  he. 

"  My  meadow  lies  green, 

And  my  corn  is  unshorn  ; 
My  barn  is  to  build. 

And  my  babie  's  unborn." 
Saddled  and  bridled 

And  booted  rade  he  ; 
Toom  hame  came  the  saddle, 

But  never  came  he  ! 


UNKNOWN. 

WALY,  WALY,  BUT  LOVE  BE  BONNY. 

0,  WALY,  waly  up  the  bank. 

And  waly,  waly  down  the  brae, 
And  waly,  Avaly  yon  burnside, 

Where  I  and  my  love  wont  to  gae. 
I  leaned  my  back  unto  an  aik, 

And  thought  it  was  a  trusty  tree, 
But  first  it  bowed,  and  syne  it  brak', 

Sae  my  true  love  did  lightly  me. 

0,  waly,  waly,  but  love  is  bonny, 

A  little  time  while  it  is  new  ; 
But  when  't  is  auld,  it  waxeth  cauld, 

And  fades  away  like  morning  dew. 
0,  wherefoie  should  I  busk  my  head ? 

Or  wherefore  should  I  kame  my  hair? 
For  my  true  love  has  me  forsook. 

And  says  he  '11  never  love  me  mair. 

Now  Arthur-Seat  shall  be  my  bed. 
The  sheets  shall  ne'er  be  filled  by  me; 


UNKNOWN. 


77 


Saint  Anton's  well  shall  be  m}'  drink, 
Since  my  true  love  's  forsaken  me, 

Martinmas  wind,  when  wilt  thou  blaw, 
And  shake  the  greeu   leaves  off  the 
tree? 

0  gentle  death !  when  wilt  thou  come  ? 
For  of  my  life  I  am  weary. 

T  is  not  the  frost  that  freezes  fell, 

Nor  blowing  snow's  inclemency ; 
'T  is  not  sic  cauld  that  makes  me  ciy. 

But  ray  love's  heart  grown  cauld  to  me. 
When  we  came  in  by  Glasgow  town. 

We  were  a  comely  sight  to  see ; 
My  love  was  clad  in  the  black  velvet, 

And  I  mysel'  in  cramasie. 

But  had  I  wist,  before  I  kissed, 
That  love  had  been  so  ill  to  win, 

1  'd  locked  my  heart  in  a  case  of  gold, 

And  pinned  it  with  a  silver  pin. 
And  0,  if  my  young  babe  were  born, 

And  set  upon  the  nurse's  knee. 
And  1  mysel'  were  dead  and  gane, 

Wi'  the  greeu  gi'ass  growing  over  me ! 


UNKNOAm 

LADY  MARY  ANN. 

0,  Lady  Mary  Ann  looked  o'er  the  cas- 
tle wa'. 

She  saw  three   bonnie   boys  playing  at 
the  ba', 

The  youngest  he  was  the  flower  amang 
them  a' : 
My  bonnie  laddie's  young,  but  he's 
gi'owin'  yet. 

"0  father,  0  father,  an'  ye  think  it  fit. 
We  '11  send  him  a  year  to  the  college  yet : 
We  '11  sew  a  green  ribbon  round  about 

his  hat. 
And  that  will  let  them  ken  he  's  to 

many  yet." 

Lady  Mary  Ann  was  a  flower  in  the  dew. 
Sweet  was  its  smell,  and  bonnie  was  its 

hue. 
And  the  langer  it  blossomed  the  sweeter 

it  grew ; 
For  the  lily  in  the  bud  will  be  bonnier 

yet. 


Young  Charlie  Cochran  was  the  sprout 

of  an  aik, 
Bonnie  and  blooming  and  straight  was 

its  make, 
The  sun  took   delight   to   shine  for  its 

sake  ; 
And  it  will  be  the  brag  o'  the  forest  yet. 

The  summer  is  gone  when  the  leaves  they 

were  green. 
And  the  days  are  awa'  that  we  hae  seen. 
But  far  better  days  I  trust  will  come 

again ; 
For  my  bonnie  laddie's  young,   but 

he  's  growing  yet. 


mumwK 

THE  BOATIE  ROWS. 

0,  WEEL  may  the  boatie  row, 

And  better  may  she  speed ; 
And  liesome  may  the  boatie  row 

That  wins  the  bairnies'  bread. 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 

The  boatie  rows  indeed ; 
And  weel  may  the  boatie  row 

That  wins  the  bairnies'  bread. 

I  coost  my  line  in  Largo  Bay, 

And  fishes  I  catched  nine ; 
'T  was  three  to  boil  and  three  to  fry, 

And  three  to  bait  the  line. 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 

The  boatie  rows  indeed. 
And  happy  be  the  lot  o'  a' 

Wha  wishes  her  to  speed. 

0,  weel  may  the  boatie  row. 

That  fills  a  heavy  creel, 
And  deeds  us  a'  fiae  tap  to  tae. 

And  buys  our  parritch  meal. 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 

The  boatie  rows,  indeed, 
And  happy  be  the  lot  o'  a' 

That  wish  the  boatie  speed. 

When  Jamie  vowed  he  wad  be  mine. 

And  wan  frae  me  my  heart, 
0,  muckle  lighter  grew  my  creel  — 

He  swore  we  'd  never  part. 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 

The  boatie  rows  fu'  weel ; 
And  muckle  lighter  is  the  load 

When  love  bears  up  the  creel. 


78 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


My  kurtch  1  put  upo'  my  head, 

And  dressed  mysel'  I'u'  braw ; 
I  trow  my  heart  was  dough  and  wae, 

When  Jamie  gade  awa'. 
But  weel  may  the  boatie  row, 

And  hicky  be  her  part, 
And  lightsome  be  the  lassie's  care 

That  yields  an  honest  heart. 


GLENLOGIE. 

Threescore  o'  nobles  rade  up  the  king's 

ha',  , 

But    bonnie   Glenlogie 's  the  flower    o 

them  a', 
Wi'  his  milk-white  steed  and  his  bonnie 

black  e'e, 
"Glenlogie,  dear  mither,  Glenlogie  for 

me !" 


"0,  haud  your  tongue,  daughter,  ye  11 

get  better  than  he." 
"  0,  say  nae  sae,  mither,  for  that  canna 

'be;  ,  ^ 

Though  Doumlie  is   richer  and   greater 

than  he,  . 

Yet  if  I  maun  tak  him,  I  11  certainly 

dee. 

"Where  will  T  get  a  Ijonnie  boy,  to  win 

hose  and  shoon, 
Will  gae  to  Glenlogie,   and  come  again 

soon?"  . 

"0,  here  am  I  a  bonnie  boy,  to  win  hose 

and  shoon, 
Will   gae   to  Glenlogie  and  come  again 

soon." 

When    he    gaed    to    Glenlogie,    'twas 

"  Wash  and  go  dine"  ; 
'Twas  "Wash  ye,  my  pretty  boy,  wash 

and  go  dine." 
"0,  't  was  ne'er  my  father's  fashion,  and 

it  ne'er  shall  be  mine  _ 
To  gar  a  lady's  en-and  wait  till  I  dine. 

"But  there  is,    Glenlogie,  a  letter  for 

thee." 
The  first  line  that  he  read,  a  low  laugli 

gave  he ; 


I  The  next  line  that  he  read,  the  tear 

blindit  his  e'e ; 
But  the  last  line  that  he  read,  he  gart 
the  table  flee. 

"  Gar  saddle  the  black  horse,  gar  saddle 

the  brown ; 
Gar  saddle  the  swiftest  steed  e'er  rade 

frae  a  town"  : 
But  lang  ere  the  horse  was  drawn  and 

brought  to  the  green, 
0,  bonnie   Glenlogie  was  twa  mile  his 

lane. 

When  he  came  to  Glenfeldy's  door,  little 
mirth  was  there ; 

Bonnie  Jean's  mother  was  tearing  her 
hair. 

"Ye 're  welcome,  Glenlogie,  ye 're  wel- 
come," said  she,  — 

"Ye  're  welcome,  Glenlogie,  your  Jeanie 
to  see." 

Pale  and  wan  was  she,  when  Glenlogie 

gaed  ben,  ^ 

But  red  and  rosy  grew  she,  whene  er  he 

sat  down; 
She  turned  awa'  her  head,  but  the  smile 

was  in  her  e'e, 
"  0,  binna  feared,  mither,  I  '11  maybe  no 

dee." 


UNKNOWN. 

JOHN  DAVIDSON. 

JoHK  Davidson  and  Tib  his  wife 
Sat  toastin'  their  taes  ae  night,  _ 

When  somethin'  started  on  the  fluir 
An'  blinked  by  their  sight. 

"Guidwife!"  quo'  John,  "did  ye   see 
that  mouse  ? 
Whar  sorra  was  the  cat?" 
"A  mouse?"  — "Ay,  a  mouse."  — •  :Na, 
na,  Guidman,  ^^ 

It  wasna  a  mouse,  't  was  a  rat. 

"Oh,  oh!  Guidwife,  to  think  ye 've  been 

Sae  lang  alwut  the  house 
An'  no  to  ken  a  mouse  frae  a  rat  !^^ 

Yon  wasna  a  rat,  but  a  mouse ! 

"I've  seen  mair  mice  than  you,  Guid- 
man, 
An'  what  think  ye  o'  that  ? 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN. — THOMAS    CHATTERTOK      79 


Sae  hand  your  tongue  an'  say  naemair,  — 
I  tell  ye  'twas  a  rat." 

*^Me  baud  my  tongue  for  you,  Guidwife  ! 

I  '11  be  maister  o'  this  house,  — 
I  saw  it  as  plain  as  een  could  see, 

An'  I  tell  ye  't  was  a  mouse !" 

"  If  you  're  the  maister  o'  the  house, 

It 's  I  'm  the  mistress  o'  't ; 
An'  I  ken  best  what 's  i'  the  house,  — 

Sae  I  tell  ye  't  was  a  rat." 

"Weel,  weel,  Guidwife,  gaemakthebrose. 

An'  ca'  it  what  ye  please." 
Sae  up  she  gat  an'  made  the  brose, 

While  John  sat  toastin'  his  taes. 

They   suppit  an'   suppit  an'  suppit  the 
brose, 
An'  aye  their  lips  played  smack  ; 
They  suppit  an'  suppit  an'  suppit  the 
brose 
Till  their  lugs  began  to  crack. 

•'  Sic  fules  we  were  to  fa'  out,  Guidwife, 
About  a  mouse."  —  "A  what ! 

It 's  a  lee  ye  tell,  an'  I  say  again 
It  wasna  a  mouse,  't  was  a  rat." 

"Wad  ye  ca'  me  a  leear  to  my  very  face  ? 

My  faith,  but  ye  craw  croose  !  — 
I  tell  ye,  Tib,  I  never  will  hear  't,  — 

'T  was  a  mouse." — -"'T  was  a  rat."  — 
"'Twas  a  mouse." 

Wi'  that  she  struck  him  ower  the  pow. 

"Ye  dour  auld  doit,  tak'  that! 
Gae  to  your  bed,  ye  cankered  sumph  ! 

'T  was  a  rat." — "'T  was  a  mouse!"  — 
"'T  was  a  rat!" 

She  sent  the  brose-cup  at  his  heels 

As  he  hirpled  ben  the  house ; 
But  he  shoved  out  his  head  as  he  steekit 
the  door. 
An'  cried,  '"T  was  a  mouse,  't  was  a 
mouse !" 

Yet  when  the  auld  carle  fell  asleep. 

She  paid  him  back  for  that. 
An'  roared  into  his  sleepin'  lug, 

"'Twasarat,  't  wasarat,  'twasarat!" 

The  deil  be  wi'  me,  if  I  think 

It  was  a  beast  at  all. 
Next  mornin',  when  .she  sweept  the  floor, 

She  found  wee  Johnie's  ball ! 


RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHER- 
IDAN. 

[1751-1816.] 

HAD    I    A    HEART   FOR   FALSEHOOD 
FRAMED. 

Had  I  a  heart  for  falsehood  framed, 

I  ne'er  could  injure  you ; 
For  though    your    tongue   no   promise 
claimed. 

Your  charms  would  make  me  true: 
To  you  no  soul  shall  bear  deceit. 

No  stranger  ofter  wrong ; 
But  friends  in  all  the  aged  you  '11  meet. 

And  lovers  in  the  young. 

For  when  they  learn  that  you  have  blest 

Another  with  your  heart, 
They  '11  bid  aspiring  passion  rest, 

And  act  a  brother's  part. 
Then,  lady,  dread  not  here  deceit, 

Nor  fear  to  suffer  wrong ; 
For  friends  in  all  the  aged  you  '11  meet, 

And  brothers  in  the  young. 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 

[1752- 1770.] 

THE  MINSTREL'S  SONG  IN  ELLA. 

0,  SING  unto  ray  roundelay  ! 

0,  droi)  the  bi'iny  tear  with  me  1 
Dance  no  more  at  holiday, 
Like  a  running  river  be. 
My  love  is  dead. 

Gone  to  his  death-bed,  / 

All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Black  his  hair  as  the  winter  night. 

White  his  neck  as  the  summer  snow, 
Ruddy  his  face  as  the  morning  light ; 
Cold  he  lies  in  the  grave  below. 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Sweet  his  tongue  as  throstle's  note, 

Quick  in  dance  as  thought  was  he; 
Deft  his  tabor,  cudgel  stout ; 
0,  he  lies  by  the  willow-tree ! 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 


80 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Hark  !  the  raven  flaps  his  wing 

In  the  briered  dell  below ; 
Hark  !  the  death-owl  loud  doth  sing 
To  the  nightmares  as  they  go. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

See  !  the  white  moon  shines  on  high ; 

Whiter  is  uiy  true-love's  shroud, 
Whiter  than  the  morning  sky, 
Whiter  than  the  evening  cloud. 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Here,  upon  my  true-love's  grave. 
Shall  the  garish  flowers  be  laid, 
Nor  one  holy  saint  to  save 
All  the  sorrows  of  a  maid. 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

With  my  hands  1  'U  bind  the  briers 

Round  his  holy  corse  to  gre ; 
Elfin-fairy,  light  your  fires, 
Heie  my  body  still  shall  be. 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Come  with  acorn  cup  and  thorn. 

Drain  my  heart's  blood  all  away; 
Life  and  all  its  good  I  scorn, 
Dance  by  night,  or  feast  by  day. 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Water-witches,  crowned  with  rejrtcs. 
Bear  me  to  your  deadly  tide. 

I  die  —  I  come  —  my  true-love  waits. 
Thus  the  damsel  spake,  and  died. 


GEORGE  CRABBB. 

[1754-1832.] 

ISAAC  ASHFORD. 

"Next  to  these  ladies,  but  in  naught 
allied, 
A  noble  peasant,  Isaac  Ash  ford,  died. 
]Sroble  he  was,  coutemningall  things  mean, 


His  truth  unquestioned  and  his  soul 
serene : 

Of  no  man's  presence  Isaac  felt  afraid ; 

At  no  man's  question  Isaac  looked  dis- 
mayed : 

Shame  knew  him  not,  he  dreaded  no 
disgrace ; 

Truth,  simple  truth,  was  written  in  his 
face; 

Yet  while  the  serious  thought  his  soul 
approved, 

Cheerful  he  seemed,  and  gentleness  he 
loved ; 

To  bliss  domestic  he  his  heart  resigned, 

And  with  the  firmest,  had  the  fondest 
mind. 

AVere  others  joyful,  he  looked  smiling  on. 

And  gave  allowance  where  he  needed  none ; 

Good  he  refused  with  future  ill  to  buy. 

Nor  knew  a  joy  that  caused  reflection's 
sigh. 

A  friend  to  virtue,  his  unclouded  breast 

No  envy  stung,  no  jealousy  distressed 

(Bane  of  the  poor !  it  wounds  their  weaker 
mind 

To  miss  one  favor  which  their  neighbors 
find) ; 

Yet  far  was  he  from  stoic  pride  removed ; 

He  felt  humanely,  and  he  warmly  loved. 

I  marked  his  action  when  his  infant  died, 

And  his  old  neighbor  for  offence  was  tried ; 

The  still  tears,  stealing  down  that  fur- 
rowed cheek. 

Spoke  pity  plainer  than  the  tongue  can 
s]ieak. 

If  pride  were  his,  't  was  not  their  vulgar 
pride 

Who,  in  their  base  contempt,  the  great 
deride"; 

Nor  pride  in  learning,  though  my  clerk 
agreed. 

If  fate  should  call  him,  Ashford  might 
succeed ; 

Nor  pridein  rusticskill,  although  weknew 

None  his  superior,  and  his  equals  few  : 

But  if  that  spirit  in  his  soul  had  place, 

It  was  tlie  jealous  pride  that  shuns  dis- 
grace ; 

A  pride  in  honest  fame,  by  virtue  gained, 

In  sturdyboys  to  virtuous  labors  trained  ; 

Pride  in  the  power  that  guards  liis  coun- 
try's coast, 

And  all  that  Englishmen  enjoy  and  boast ; 

Pride  in  a  life  that  slander's  tongue  defied. 

In  fact,  a  no])le  passion,  misnamed  pride. 
He  had  no  party's  rage,  no  sectary's 
whim ; 


SAMUEL   EOGERS. 


81 


Christian  and  countryman  was  all  with 

him, 
True  to  his  church  he  came,  no  Simday- 

shovver 
Kept  hiinathome  in  that  important  hour ; 
Norliistirm  feet  could  one  persuading  sect 
By  the  strong  ghxre  of  their  new  light 

direct : — 
"On  hope,  in  mine  own  sober  light,  I  gaze. 
But  should  be  blind  and  lose  it  in  your 

blaze." 
In  times  severe,  when  many  a  sturdy 

swain 
Felt  it  his  pride,  his  comfort,  to  complain, 
Isaac  their  wants  would  soothe,  his  own 

would  hide, 
And  feel  in  that  his  comfort  and  his  pride. 
At  length  lie  found,  when  seventy  years 

were  run. 
His  strength  departed  and  his  labor  done  ; 
Wlien,  save  his  honest  fame,  he  kept  no 

more ; 
But  lost  his  wife  and  saw  his  children 

poor. 
'T  was  then  a  spark  of —  say  not  discon- 
tent— 
Strack  on  his  mind,  and  thus  he  gave  it 

vent : 
"Kind  are  your  laws  ('tis  not  to  be 

denied) 
That  in  yon  liouse  for  ruined  age  provide. 
And  they  are  just ;  when  young,  we  give 

you  all. 
And  then  for  comforts  in  our  weakness 

call. 
Why  then  this  proud  reluctance  to  be 

fed. 
To  join  your  poor  and  eat  the  parish- 
bread? 
But  yet  I  linger,  loath  with  hira  to  feed 
Who  gains  liis  plenty  by  the  sons  of  need : 
He  who,  by  contract,  all  your  paupers 

took. 
And  gauges  stomachs  with  an  anxious 

look: 
On  some  old  master  I  could  well  depend ; 
See  him  vvith  joy  and  thank  him  as  a 

friend ; 
But  ill  on  him  who  doles  the  day's  supply, 
And   counts   our  chances  who  at  night 

may  die : 
Yet  help  me,  Heaven !  and  let  me  not 

complain 
Of  what  befalls  me,  but  the  fate  sustain." 
Such   were  his  thoughts,  and   so   re- 
signed he  giew ; 
DaUyhe  placed  the  workhouse  in  his  view  !  i 
6 


But  came  not  there,  for  sudden  was  his 

fate, 
He  dropt  expiring  at  his  cottage-gate. 

I  feel  his  absence  in  the  hours  of  prayer. 
And  view  liisseat,  andsigh  for  Isaac  there ; 
1  see  no  more  those  white  locks  thinly 

spread 
Round  the  bald  polish  of  that  honored 

head ; 
No  more  tliat  awful  glance  on  j)layful 

wight 
Compelled  to  kneel  and  tremble  at  the 

sight, 
To  fold  his  fingers  all  in  dread  the  while, 
Till  Mister  Ashford  softened  to  a  smile ; 
No  more  that  meek  and  suppliant  look 

in  prayer. 
Nor  the  pure  faith  (to  give  it  force)  are 

there :  .  .  .  . 
But  he  is  blest,  and  I  lament  no  more, 
A  wise  good  man  contented  to  be  poor. 


SAMUEL  EOGERS. 

[1763 -1855.] 

A  WISH. 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill ; 
A  bee-hive's  hum  shall  soothe  my  ear; 
A  willowy  brook  that  turns  a  mill. 
With  many  a  fall  shall  linger  near. 

The  swallow,  oft,  beneath  my  thatch 
Shall  twitter  from  her  clay-built  nest ; 
Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch. 
And  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest. 

Around  my  ivied  porch  shall  spring 
Each  fragrant  flower  that  diinlvs  the  dew ; 
And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing 
In  russet  gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  village-church  among  the  trees, 
Where  first  ourmarriage-vowswere given. 
With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze, 
And  point  with  taper  spire  to  heaven. 


ITALIAN  SONG. 

Dear  is  my  little  native  vale. 

The  ring-dove  builds  and  muimurs  there ; 

Close  by  my  cot  she  tells  her  tale 

To  every  passing  villager. 


82 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


The  squirrel  leaps  from  tree  to  tree, 
And  shells  Ills  nuts  at  liberty. 

In  orange  groves  and  myrtle  bowers, 
That  breathe  a  gale  of  fragrance  round, 
I  charm  the  fairy-footed  hours 
With  my  loved  lute's  romantic  sound; 
Of  crowns  of  living  laurel  weave 
For  those  that  win  the  race  at  eve. 

The  shepherd's  horn  at  break  of  day, 
The  ballet  danced  in  twilight  glade. 
The  canzonet  and  roundelay 
Sung  in  the  silent  greenwood  shade  : 
These  simple  joys  that  never  fail 
Shall  bind  me  to  my  native  vale. 


OF    A' 


EGBERT  BURNS. 

[1759- 1796.] 

THE    AIRTS    THE   WESTD   CAN 
BLAW. 


Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 

I  dearly  like  the  west ; 
For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  1  lo'e  best. 
There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row, 

And  monie  a  hill 's  between ; 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I  see  her  sweet  and  fair ; 
I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air ; 
There  's  not  a  bonnie  flower  that  springs 

By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green,  — 
There  's  not  a  bonnie  bird  that  sings, 

But  minds  me  0'  my  Jean. 


MARY  MORISON. 

0  Mary,  at  tliy  window  be  ! 

It  is  the  wisheil,  tlie  trysted  hour ! 
Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see. 

That  make  the  miser's  treasure  poor : 
How  blithely  wad  I  bide  the  stoure, 

A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun. 
Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure. 

The  lovely  Mary  Morison, 


Yestreen  when  to  the  trembling  string 

The  dance  gaed  through  the  lighted  ha', 
To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, 

I  sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw. 
Though  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw. 

And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  the  town, 
I  sighed,  and  said  amang  them  a', 

"Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison." 

0  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace 

Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  dee  ? 
Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 

Whase  only  faut  is  loving  thee  ? 
If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gie. 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown ; 
A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 

The  thought  0'  Mary  ]\Iorison. 


HIGHLAND  MARY. 

Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers. 

Your  waters  never  drumlie  ! 
There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes 

And  there  the  langest  tarry  ! 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 

0'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloomed  the  gay  green  birk, 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom, 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasjied  her  to  my  bosom  ! 
The  golden  hours  on  angel  wings 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie  ; 
For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  monie  a  vow  and  locked  embrace 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender ; 
And  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  ourselves  asunder ; 
But,  0,  fell  Death's  untimely  frost, 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early  ! 
Now  green  's  the  sod,  and  cauld's  the  clay, 

That  wrajjs  my  Highland  Mary  ! 

O  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips 

I  aft  hae  kissed  sae  fondly  ! 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly  ! 
And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Higliland  Mary. 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


83 


TO  MARY  IN  HEAVEN. 

Thotj  lingering  star,  with  lessening  ray, 

That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 
Again  thou  iisherest  in  tlie  day 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
0  Mary  !  dear,  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his 
breast  ? 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget, 

Can  I  forget  the  hallowed  grove, 
Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love  ? 
Eternity  will  not  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past ; 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace  ! 

Ah !  little  thought  we  't  was  our  last ! 

Ayr,  gurgling,  kissed  his  pebl)led  shore, 

O'erhung  with  wild  woods,  thickening 
green ; 
The  fragrant  birch,  and  hawthorn  hoar. 

Twined   amorous  round  the  raptured 
scene. 
The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  pressed, 

The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray. 
Till  too,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 

Proclaimed  the  speed  of  winged  day. 

Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  memory  wakes. 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care ; 
Time  but  the  impression  deeper  makes. 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 
My  Mary !  dear,  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  gi'oans  that  rend  his 
breast  ? 


A  VISION. 

As  I  stood  by  yon  roofless  tower. 

Where  the  wa' -flower  scents  the  dewy 
air, 

Where  the  ho  wlet  mourns  in  her  ivy  bower. 
And  tells  the  midnight  moon  her  care. 

The  winds  were  laid,  the  air  was  still. 
The  stars  they  shot  alang  the  sky ; 

The  fox  was  howling  on  the  hill. 
And  the  distant-echoing  glens  rejjly. 

The  stream,  adown  its  hazelly  path. 
Was  rushing  by  the  ruined  wa's, 


Hasting  to  join  the  sweeping  Nith, 
Whase  distant  roaring  swells  and  fa's. 

The  cauld  blue  north  was  streaming  forth 
Her  lights,  wi'  hissing,  eerie  din ; 

Atliort  the  lift  they  start  and  shift. 
Like  fortune's  favors,  tint  as  win. 

By  heedless  chance  I  turned  mine  eyes, 
And  by  the  moon-beam,  sliook,  to  see 

A  stern  and  stalwart  ghaist  arise. 
Attired  as  minstrels  wont  to  be. 

Had  I  a  statue  been  o'  stane. 

His  darin  look  had  daunted  me : 

And  on  his  bonnet  graved  was  plain, 
The  sacred  posy — Libertie! 

And  frae  his  harp  sic  strains  did  flow. 
Might  roused  the  slumbering  dead  to 
hear ; 

But  0,  it  was  a  tale  of  woe. 
As  ever  met  a  Briton's  ear ! 

He  sang  wi'  joy  his  former  day, 

He  weeping  wailed  his  latter  times; 

But  what  he  said  it  was  nae  play, 
I  winna  ventur  't  in  my  rhymes. 


A  BARD'S  EPITAPH. 

Is  there  a  whim-inspired  fool, 
Owre  last  for  thought,  owre  hot  for  rule, 
Owre  blate  to  seek,  owre  proud  to  snool. 

Let  him  draw  near, 
And  owre  this  grassy  heap  sing  dool, 

And  drap  a  tear. 

Is  there  a  bard  of  rustic  song. 
Who,  noteless,  steals  the  crowds  among, 
That  weekly  this  area  throng, 

0,  pass  not  by  ! 
But  with  a  frater-feeling  strong. 

Here  heave  a  sigh. 

Is  there  a  man  whose  judgment  clear 
Can  others  teach  the  course  to  steei", 
Yet  runs  himself  life's  mad  career, 

AVild  as  the  wave ; 
Here  pause,  and,  thro'  the  starting  tear. 

Survey  this  grave. 

This  poor  inhabitant  below 
Was  c[uick  to  learn  and  wise  to  know. 


84 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTUPJES. 


And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow, 
And  softer  Haine ; 

But  tliouglitless  follies  laid  him  low, 

And  stained  his  name  ! 

Eeader,  attend, — whether  thy  soul 
Soars  fancy's  flights  heyond  the  pole, 
Or  darkling  grubs  this  earthly  hole, 

In  low  pursuit; 
Know  prudent,  cautious  self-control 

Is  wisdom's  root. 


ELEGY    ON    CAPTAIN    MATTHEW 
HENDERSON. 

He  's  gane,  he  's  gane  !  he  's  frae  us  torn, 

The  ae  Lest  fellow  e'er  was  born  ! 

Thee,  Matthew,  Nature's  sel  shall  mourn 

By  wood  and  wild. 
Where,  haply.  Pity  strays  forlorn, 

Frae  man  exiled. 

Ye  hills,  near  neebors  o'  the  starns, 
Tliat  proudly  cock  your  cresting  cairns  ! 
Ye  clitfs,  the  haunts  of  sailing  yearns 

Where  echo  slumbers ! 
Come  join,  ye  Nature's  sturdiest  bairns. 

My  wailing  numbers ! 

Mourn,  ilka  grove  the  cushat  kens  ! 
Ye  haz'lly  shaws  and  briery  dens  ! 
Ye  burnies,  wimplin  down  your  glens, 

Wi'  toddlin  din. 
Or  foaming  Strang,  wi'  hasty  stens, 

Frae  lin  to  lin. 

Mourn,  little  harebells  o'er  the  lea ; 
Ye  stately  foxgloves  fair  to  see ; 
Ye  woodbines  hanging  bonnilie, 

In  scented  bow'rs; 
Ye  roses  on  your  thorny  tree. 

The  first  o'  flow'rs. 

At  dawn,  when  every  gi'assy  blade 

Droops  with  a  diamond  at  its  head, 

At  ev'n,  when  beans  their  fragrance  shed, 

r  th'  rustling  gale, 
Ye  maukins  whiddin  thro'  tin;  glade. 

Come  join  my  wail. 

Mourn,  ye  wee  songsters  o'  the  wood ; 
Ye  grouse  that  crap  the  heather  bud ; 
Ye  curlews  calling  thro'  a  clud  ; 

Ye  whistling  plover; 
And  mourn,  ye  whirring  jiaitrick  brood; 

He  's  gane  forever ! 


Mourn,  sootj''  coots,  and  speckled  teals ; 
Ye  fisher  herons,  watching  eels ; 
Ye  duck  and  drake,  wi'  airy  wheels 

Circling  the  lake ; 
Ye  bitterns,  till  the  quagmire  reels, 

Rair  for  his  sake. 

Mourn,  clam'ring  craiks  at  close  o'  da}', 
'Mang  fields  o'  fiow'ring  claver  gay; 
And  when  ye  wing  your  annual  way 

Frae  our  cauld  shore. 
Tell  thae  far  warlds,  wha  lies  in  clay, 

Wham  we  deplore. 

Ye  howlets,  frae  your  ivjr  how'r. 
In  some  auld  tree,  or  eldritch  tow'r. 
What  time  the  moon,  wi'  silent  glow'r, 

Sets  uj)  her  horn. 
Wail  thro'  the  dreary  midnight  hour 

Till  waukrife  morn. 

0  rivers,  forests,  hills,  and  plains ! 
Oft  have  ye  heard  my  canty  strains ; 
But  now,  what  else  ibr  me  remains 

But  tales  of  woe  ? 
And  frae  my  een  the  drapping  rains 

Maun  ever  flow. 

Mourn,  S]:)ring,  thou  darling  of  the  year ! 
Ilk  cowslip  cup  shall  keji  a  tear; 
Thou,  Sunnner,  while  each  corny  spear 

Shoots  up  its  head. 
Thy  gay,  green,  llow'iy  tresses  shear 

For  him  that 's  dead ! 

Thou,  Autumn,  wi'  thy  yellow  hair. 
In  grief  thy  sallow  mantle  tear ! 
Thou,  Winter,  hurling  thro'  the  air 

The  roaring  blast. 
Wide  o'er  the  naked  Avorld  declare 

The  worth  we  've  lost ! 

Mourn  him,  thou  Sun,great  source  of  light ; 
Mourn,  Empress  of  the  silent  night ! 
And  you,  ye  twinkling  starnies  bright, 

My  Matthew  mourn ! 
For  through  your  orbs  he 'sta'en  his  flight, 

Ne'er  to  return. 

0  Henderson  ;  the  man  !  the  brother ! 
And  art  thou  gone,  and  gone  forever ! 
And  hast  thou  crost  that  unknown  river. 

Life's  dreaiy  bound ! 
Like  thee,  where  shall  I  find  another, 

The  world  around  ? 

Go  to  your  sculptured  tombs,  ye  Great, 
In  a'  the  tinsel  trash  o'  state ! 


LADY  ANNE   BAENAKD.  —  WILLIAM   BLAKE. 


85 


But  by  thy  honest  tmf  I  '11  wait, 

Thou  man  of  worth  ! 

And  weep  the  ae  best  fellow's  fate 
E'er  lay  in  earth. 


LADY  ANNE  BAENAED. 

[1705- 1825.] 

ATJLD  ROBIN  GRAY. 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  and 

the  kye  come  hame, 
And  a'  the  weary  warld  to  sleep  are  gane ; 
The  waes  o'  my  heart  fa'  in  showers  frae 

my  ee, 
While  my  gudeman  lies  sound  by  me. 

Young  Jamie  lo'ed  me  weel,  and  socht 

me  for  his  bride  ; 
But  saving   a   croun,  he  had  naething 

else  beside ; 
To  male  that  croun  a  pund,  my  Jamie 

gaed  to  sea ; 
And  the  croun  and  the  pund  they  were 

baith  for  me. 

He  hadna  been  gane  a  twelvemonth  and 

a  day, 
When  my  father  brak  his  arm,  and  the 

cow  was  stown  awa : 
My  mither  she  fell  sick,  — my  Jamie  was 

at  sea, 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  cam'  a-courtin'  me. 

My  father  couldna  work,  and  my  mother 

couldna  spin ; 
I  toiled  day  and  nicht,  but  their  bread  I 

couldna  win ; 
Auld  Eob  maintained  them  baith,  and, 

wi'  tears  in  his  ee'. 
Said,  "Jeannie,  for  their  sakes,  will  ye 

na  marry  me?" 

My  heart  it  said  nay,  for  I  looked  for 

Jamie  back ; 
But  the  wind  it  blew  high,  and  the  ship 

it  was  a  wrack ; 
The  ship  it  was  a  wrack — why  didna 

Jamie  dee  ? 
Or  why  do  I  live  to  say,  Wae  's  me  ? 

Myfather  urged  me  sair :  my  mither  didna 

speak  ; 
But  she  lookit  in  my  face  till  my  heart 

was  like  to  break ; 


They  gied  him   my  hand,  though  my 

lieart  was  in  the  sea ; 
And  auld  Kobin  Gray  was  gudeman  to 

me. 

I  hadna  been  a  wife  a  week  but  only  four. 
When,  mournfu'  as  I  sat  on  thestaneatmy 

door, 
I  saw  my  Jamie's  wraith,  for  I  couldna 

think  it  he. 
Till  he  said,  "I  'm  come  home,  love,  to 

many  thee." 

0,  sair  did  we  greet,  and  muckle  say  of  a' ! 
I  gie'd  him  but  ae  kiss,  and  bade  him 

gang  awa' : 
I  wish  I  were  dead !  but  I  'm  no  like  to 

dee; 
And  whj'  do  I  live  to  cry,  Wae  's  me  ? 

» 
I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  to  spin ; 
I  daurna  think  on  Jamie,  for  that  wad 

be  a  sin ; 
But  I  '11  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  to  be, 
For  auld  Kobin  Gray,  he  is  kind  to  me. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE. 

[17S7-1827.] 

THE   TIGER. 

TifiER  !  Tiger  !  burning  bright, 
In  the  forests  of  the  night ; 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry  ? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burned  the  fire  of  thine  eyes  ? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire  ? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire  ? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art. 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thine  heart  ? 
And  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat. 
What  dread  hand  ?  and  what  dread  feet  ? 

What  the  hammer,  what  the  chain  ? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain  ? 
What  the  anvil  ?  what  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  teiTors  clasp  ? 

When  the  stai's  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 


86 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTUEIES. 


Did  lie  smile  his  work  to  see  ? 

Did  He,  who  uiade  the  Lamb,  make  thee  ? 

Tiger  !  Tiger  !  burning  bright, 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry  ? 


TO   THE   MUSES. 

Whether  on  Ida's  shady  brow 
Or  in  the  chambers  of  the  East, 

The  chambers  of  the  sun,  which  now 
From  ancient  melodies  have  ceased  ; 

Whether  in  Heaven  ye  wander  fair. 
Or  the  green  corners  of  the  earth. 

Or  the  blue  regions  of  the  air, 

Where  the  melodious  winds  have  birth. 

Whether  on  crystal  rocks  ye  rove, 
Beneath  the  bosom  of  the  sea. 

Wandering  in  many  a  coral  grove, 
Fair  Nine,  forsaking  Poetry, 

How  have  you  left  the  ancient  lore 
That  bards  of  old  engaged  in  you  ! 

The  languid  strings  do  scai'cely  move. 
The  sound  is  forced,  the  notes  are  few. 


JOANNA  BAILLIE. 

[1762- 1831.] 

THE  GOWAN   GLITTERS  ON  THE 
SWARD. 

The  gowan  glitters  on  the  sward, 

The  lav'rock  's  in  the  sky, 
And  Collie  on  my  plaid  keeps  ward. 
And  time  is  passing  by. 
0,  no !  sad  and  slow, 

And  lengthened  on  the  ground ; 
The  shadow  of  our  tiysting  bush 
It  wears  so  slowly  round. 

M3'  sheep-bells  tinkle  frae  the  west, 

My  lambs  are  bleating  near ; 
But  still  the  sound  that  I  love  best, 
Alack !  I  canna  heai'. 
0,  no  !  sad  and  slow, 

The  shadow  lingers  still ; 
And  like  a  lancly  ghaist  I  stand. 
And  croon  upon  the  hill. 


I  hear  below  the  water  roar, 
The  mill  wi'  clacking  din. 
And  Lucky  scolding  frae  the  door, 
To  ca'  the  bairnies  in. 
0,  no  !  sad  and  &low. 

These  are  nae  sounds  for  me ; 
The  shadow  of  our  trysting  bush 
It  creeps  sae  drearily. 

I  coft  yestreen,  frae  chapman  Tarn, 

A  snood  o'  boniiie  blue. 
And  promised,  when  our  trysting  cam', 
To  tie  it  round  her  brow. 
0,  no  !  sad  and  slow, 

The  mark  it  winna'  pass ; 
The  shadow  o'  that  dreary  bush 
Is  tethered  on  the  grass. 

0  now  I  see  her  on  the  way ! 

She 's  past  the  witch's  knowe ; 
She  's  climbing  up  the  brownies  brae ; 
My  heart  is  in  a  lowe, 
0,  no  !  't  is  not  so, 

'T  is  glamrie  I  hae  seen ; 
The  sliailow  o'  that  hawthorn  bush 
Will  move  nae  mair  till  e'en. 

My  book  o'  grace  I  '11  try  to  read. 
Though  conned  wi'  little  skill ; 
When  Collie  barks  I  '11  raise  my  head, 
And  find  her  on  the  hill. 
0,  no  !  sad  and  slow, 

The  time  will  ne'er  be  gane ; 
The  shadow  o'  our  trysting  bush 
Is  fixed  like  ony  stane. 


LADY  CAROLINE  NAIRN. 

[1766-1845.] 

THE  LAND  O'  THE  LEAL. 

I  'm  wearin'  awa',  Jean, 
Like  snaw  in  a  thaw,  Jean, 
I  'm  wearin'  awa' 

To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 
There  's  nae  sorrow  there,  Jean, 
There's  neither  cauld  nor  care,  Jean, 
The  day  is  ever  fair 

In  the  Land  0'  the  Leal. 

You  've  been  leal  and  true,  Jean, 
Your  task  is  ended  noo,  Jean, 
And  I  '11  welcome  you 
To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 


EGBERT   BLOOMFIELD. 


87 


Then  dry  that  tearfu'  ee,  Jean ; 
My  soul  langs  to  be  free,  Jean ; 
And  angels  wait  on  me 
To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 

Our  bonnie  bairn  's  there,  Jean, 
She  was  baith  gude  and  fair,  Jean, 
And  we  grudged  her  sair 

To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal ! 
But  sorrow 's  self  wears  past,  Jean, 
And  joy 's  a  comin'  fast,  Jean, 
The  joy  that 's  aye  to  last. 

In  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 

A'  our  friends  are  gane,  Jean ; 
We  've  lang  been  left  alane,  Jean ; 
But  we  '11  a'  meet  again 

In  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 
Now  fare  ye  weel,  my  ain  Jean ! 
This  world's  care  is  vain,  Jean ! 
We  '11  meet,  and  aye  be  fain 

In  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 


ROBERT  BLOOMFIELD. 

[1766- 1823.] 

THE  SOLDIER'S  RETURN. 

How  sweet  it  was  to  breathe  that  cooler 

air. 
And  take  possession  of  my  father's  chair ! 
Beneath  my  elbow,  on  the  solid  frame, 
Appeared  the  rough  initials  of  my  name, 
Cut  forty  years  before !     The  same  old 

clock 
Struck  the  same  bell,  and  gave  my  heart 

a  shock 
I   never   can   forget.      A   short  breeze 

sprung, 
And  while  a  sigh  was  trembling  on  my 

tongue. 
Caught  the  old  dangling  almanacs   be- 
hind. 
And  up  they  flew  like  banners  in  the 

wind ; 
Then  gently,  singly,  down,  down,  down 

they  went. 
And  told  of  twenty  years  that  I  had  spent 
Far  from  my  native  land.     That  instant 

came 
A  robin  on  the  threshold;  though  so 

tame, 


At    first   he  looked  distrustful,   almost 

shy. 
And  cast  on  me  his  coal-black  steadfast 

eye. 
And  seemed  to  say,  —  past  friendship  to 

renew,  — 
"Ah  ha !  old  worn-out  soldier,  is  it  you  ?" 
While  thus  I  mused,  still  gazing,  gazing 

still, 
On  beds  of  moss  spread  on  the  window- 
sill, 
I  deemed  no  moss  my  eyes  had  ever  seen 
Had  been  so  lovely,  brilliant,  fresh,  and 

green. 
And  guessed  some  infant  hand  had  placed 

it  there. 
And  prized  its  hue,  so  exquisite,  so  rare. 
Feelings  on  feelings  mingling,  doubling 

rose ; 
My  heart  felt  everything  but  calm  repose ; 
I  "could  not  reckon  minutes,  hours,  nor 

years. 
But  rose  at  once,  and  bursted  into  tears ; 
Then,  like   a   fool,   confused,  sat  down 

again. 
And  thought  upon  the  past  with  shame 

and  pain  ; 
I  raved  at  war  and  all  its  horrid  cost, 
And  glory's  quagmire,  where  the  brave 

are  lost. 
On   carnage,    fii-e,   and  plunder   long  I 

nmsed, 
And  cursed  the  murdering  weapons  I  had 

used. 
Two  shadows  then  I  saw,  two  voices 

heard. 
One  bespoke  age,  and  one  a  child's  ap- 
peared. 
In  stepped  my  father   with  convulsive 

start, 
And  in  an  instant  clasped  me  to  his  heart. 
Close   by  him  stood  a  little  blue-eyed 

maid ; 
And  stooping  to  the  child,  the  old  man 

said, 
"Come   hither,    Nancy,    kiss   me   once 

again ; 
This  is  your  uncle  Charles,  come  home 

from  Spain." 
The   child    approached,    and   with   her 

fingers  light 
Stroked  my  old  eyes,  almost  deprived  of 

sight. 
But  why  thus  spin  my  tale,  — thus  tedious 

be? 
Happy  old  soldier !  what 's  the  world  to 

me? 


88 


SONGS   OF  THEEE   CENTUPJES. 


JAEE  ELLIOTT. 

[1781-1849.] 

LAMENT  FOR  FLODDEN. 

I  'vE  lieard  them  lilting  at  oiir  ewe-milk- 
ing) 
Lasses  a'  lilting  tefore  dawn  0'  day ; 
But  now  they  are  moaning  on  ilka  green 
loaning — ■ 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede 
away. 

At  bughts,  in  the  morning,  nae  blythe 
lads  are  scorning, 
Lasses  are  lonely  and  dowie  and  wae  ; 
Nae  daffin',  nae  gabbin',  but  sighing  and 
sabbing, 
Ilk  ane  lifts  her  leglin  and  liies  her 
away. 

In  har'st,  at  the   shearing,  nae  youths 
now  are  jeering, 
Bandsters  are  lyart,  and  runkled,  and 
gray ; 
At  fair  or  at  preaching,  nae  wooing,  nae 
ileeching  — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede 
away. 

At  e'en,  in  the  gloamhig,  nae  younkers 
are  roaming 
'Bout  stacks  wi'  the  lasses  at  bogle  to 
play; 
But  ilk  ane  sits  drearie,  lamenting  her 
dearie  — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  weded 
away. 

Dool  and  wae  for  the  order,  sent  our  lads 
to  the  Border ! 
The   English,  for  ance,  by  guile  wan 
the  day ; 
The  Flowers  "of  the  Forest,  that  fought 
aye  the  foremost. 
The  prime  of  our  land,  are  cauld  in 
the  clay. 

"We  '11  hear  hac  mair  lilting  at  the  ewe- 
milking  ; 
Women  and  bairns  are  heartless  and 
wae ; 
Sighing  and  moaning  on  ilka  green  loan- 
ing— 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a  wede 
away. 


EGBERT  TA1«INAHILL. 

[1774- iSio.] 

THE  MIDGES   DANCE  ABOON  THE 
BURN. 

The  midges  dance  aboon  the  burn ; 

The  dews  begin  to  fa' ; 
The  paitricks  down  the  rushy  holm 

Set  up  their  e'ening  ca'. 
Now  loud  and  clear  the  blackbird's  sang 

Rings  through  the  briery  shaw, 
"While  Hitting  gay  the  swallows  play 

Around  the  castle  wa'. 

Beneath  the  golden  gloamin'  sky 

The  mavis  mends  her  lay ; 
The  redbreast  pours  his  sweetest  strains, 

To  charm  the  ling' ring  day ; 
While  weary  yaldrins  seem  to  wail 

Their  little  nestlings  torn. 
The  merry  wren,  frae  den  to  den, 

Gaes  jinking  through  the  thorn. 

The  roses  fauld  their  silken  leaves, 

The  foxglove  shuts  its  bell ; 
The  honeysuckle  and  the  birk 

Spread  fragrance  through  the  dell. 
Let  others  crowd  the  giddy  court 

Of  mirth  and  revelry. 
The  simple  joys  that  Nature  yields 

Are  dearer  far  to  me. 


THE  BRAES  O'  BALQUHITHER. 

Let  us  go,  lassie,  go. 

To  the  braes  o'  Balquhither, 
Where  the  blae-berries  grow 

'Mang  the  bonnie  Highland  heather; 
Where  the  deer  and  the  roe, 

Lightly  bounding  together, 
Sport  the  lang  summer  day 

On  the  braes  o'  Balquhither. 

I  will  twine  thee  a  bower 

By  the  clear  siller  fountain, 
And  I  '11  cover  it  o'er 

Wi'  the  flowers  of  the  mountain ; 
I  will  range  through  the  wilds. 

And  the  deep  glens  sae  drearie, 
And  return  wi'  the  spoils 

To  the  bower  o'  my  dearie. 

When  the  rude  wintry  win' 
Idly  raves  round  our  dwelling. 


WILLIAM  E.   SPEXCER. 


■JOSEPH  BLANCO   WHITE. 


89 


And  the  roar  of  tlie  linn 

On  the  night  breeze  is  swelling, 
So  merrily  we  '11  sing, 

As  the  stonn  rattles  o'er  lis, 
Till  the  dear  shieling  ring 

Wi'  the  light  lilting  chorus. 

Now  the  summer  's  in  prime 

Wi'  the  flowers  richly  blooming, 
And  the  wild  mountain  thyme 

A'  the  moorlands  perfuming ; 
To  our  dear  native  scenes 

Let  us  journey  together, 
Where  glad  innocence  reigns 

'Mang  the  braes  o'  Balquhither. 


WILLIAM  E.  SPENCER. 

[1770- 1834.] 

TO  THE  LADY  ANNE  HAMILTON. 

Too  late  I  stayed,  forgive  the  crime. 

Unheeded  flew  the  hours  ; 
How  noiseless  falls  the  foot  of  Time 

That  only  treads  on  flowers ! 

What  eye  with  clear  account  remarks 

The  ebbing  of  his  glass, 
When  all  its  sands  are  diamond  sparks 

That  dazzle  as  they  pass ! 

Ah !  who  to  sober  measurement 
Time's  happy  swiftness  brings, 

When  birds  of  Paradise  have  lent 
Their  plumage  to  its  wings  ? 


JAMES  GLASSFORD. 

[1772-     .] 

THE  DEAD  WHO  HAVE  DIED  IN  THE 
LORD. 

Go,  call  for  the  mourners,  and  raise  the 

lament. 
Let  the  tresses  be  torn,  and  the  garments 

be  rent ; 
But  weep  not  for  him  who  is  gone  to 

his  rest. 
Nor  mouin  for  the  ransomed,  nor  wail 

for  the  blest. 


The  sun  is  not  set,  but  is  risen  on  high, 

Nor  long  in  corruption  his  body  shall  lie  ; 

Then  let  not  the  tide  of  thy  griefs  over- 
flow, 

Nor  the  music  of  heaven  be  discord  below ; 

Eather  loud  be  the  song,  and  triumphant 
the  chord. 

Let  us  joy  for  the  dead  who  have  died  in 
the  Lord. 

Go,  call  for  the  mourners,  and  raise  the 

lament. 
Let  the  tresses  be  torn,  and  the  garments 

be  rent ; 
But  give  to  the  living  thy  passion  of  tears. 
Who  walk  in  this  valley  of  sadness  and 

fears ; 
Who  are  pressed  by  the  combat,  in  dark- 
ness are  lost. 
By  the  tempest  are  beat,  on  the  billows 

are  tossed : 
0,  weep  not  for  those  who  shall  sorrow 

no  more. 
Whose  warfare  is  ended,  whose  trial  is 

o'er ; 
Let  the  song  be  exalted,  triumphant  the 

chord. 
And  rejoice  for  the  dead  who  have  died 

in  the  Lord. 


JOSEPH  BLANCO  WHITE. 

[177s -184 1.] 

NIGHT   AND  DEATH. 

Mysterious  night !  when  our  first  par- 
ent knew 
Thee  from  report  Divine,  and  heard  thy 

name. 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  frame, 
This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue? 
Yet,  'neath  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew, 
Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting 

flame, 
Hesperus,  with  the  host  of  heaven,  came, 
And  lo  !  creation  widened  in  man's  view. 
Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness 
lay  concealed 
Within   thy  beams,   0   sun !    or  who 
could  find, 
Wliilst   fly,  and   leaf,  and  insect  stood 
revealed. 
That   to   such    countless    orbs    thou 
mad'st  us  blind  ? 


90 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Why  do  we,  then,  shun  death  with  anx- 
ious strife  ? 

If  light  cau  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not 
Uie? 


JOHN  LEYDEN. 

[1775-1811.1 

ODE  TO  AN  INDIAN  GOLD  COIN. 

WRITTEN   IN   CHERICAL,    MALABAR. 

Slave  of  tlie  dark  and  dirty  mine  ! 

What  vanity  has  brought  thee  here  ? 
How  can  I  love  to  see  thee  shine 

So  briglit,  whom   I   have  bought  so 
dear? — 

The  tent-ropes  flapping  lone  I  hear, 
For  twilight  converse,  arm  in  arni ; 

The  jackal's  shriek  bursts  on  mine  ear 
Whom  mirth  and  music  wont  to  charm. 

By  Cherical's  dark  wandering  streams. 
Where  cane-tufts  shadow  all  the  wild, 

Sweet  visions  haunt  my  waking  dreams 
Of  Teviot  loved  while  still  a  child. 
Of  castled  rocks  stupendous  piled 

By  Esk  or  Eden's  classic  wave, 

Where  loves  of  youth  and  friendship 
smiled, 

Uncursed  by  thee,  vile  yellow  slave  ! 

Fade,  day-dreams   sweet,  from  memory 
fade!  — 

Theperishcd  blissof  youth'sfirstpnme, 
That  once  so  bright  on  fancy  played, 

Revives  no  more  in  after  time. 

Far  from  my  sacred  natal  clime, 
I  haste  to  an  untimely  grave  ; 

The  daring  thoughts  that  soared  sub- 
lime 
Are  sunk  in  ocean's  southern  wave. 

Slave  of  the  mine  !  thy  yellow  light 

Gleams  baleful  as  the  tomb-fire  drear. 
A  gentle  vision  comes  by  night 

My  lonely  widowed  heart  to  cheer ; 

Her  eyes  are  dim  with  many  a  tear, 
That  once  were  guiding  stars  to  niiric  : 

Her   fond  heart  throbs  with  many  a 
f(;ar ! 
I  cannot  bear  to  see  thee  shine. 

For  thee,  for  thee,  vile  yellow  slave, 
I  left  a  heart  that  loved  me  true ! 


I  crossed  the  tedious  ocean-wave, 
To  roam  in  climes  unkind  and  new. 
The  cold  wind  of  the  stranger  blew 

Chill  on  my  withered  heart :  the  grave 
Dark  and  untimely  met  my  view,  — 

And  all  for  thee,  vile  yellow  slave ! 

Ha !  aomest  thou  now  so  late  to  mock 

A  wanderer's  banished  heart  forlorn. 
Now  that  his  frame  the  lightning  shock 

Of  sun-rays  tipt  with  death  has  borne  ? 

From  love,  from  friendship,  country, 
torn. 
To  memory's  fond  regrets  the  prey, 

Vile  slave,  thy  yellow  dross  I  scorn ! 
Go  mix  thee  with  thy  kindred  clay  ! 


SIR  HUMPHRY  DAVY. 

[1778- 1829.] 

WRITTEN    AFTER    RECOVERY    FROM 
A  DANGEROUS  ILLNESS. 

Lo!  o'er  the  earth  the  kindling  spirits 
pour 
The  flames  of  life  that  bounteous  na- 
ture gives ; 
The  limpid  dew  becomes  the  rosy  flower, 
The  insensate  dust  awakes,  and  moves, 
and  lives. 

All   speaks   of  change:    the  renovated 
forms 
Of  long-forgotten  things  arise  again ; 
The  light  of  suns,  the  breath  of  angry 
storms. 
The  everlasting  motions  of  the  mam,  — 

These   are  but   engines  of  the  Eternal 
will. 
The   One  Intelligence,  whose   potent 

Has  ever  acted,  and  is  acting  still, 
Whilst  stars,  and  worlds,  and  systems 
all  obey ; 

Without  whose  power,  the  whole  of  mor- 
tal things 
Were   dull,    inert,    an   unharmonious 
band, 
Silent  as  are  the  harp's  untuned  .string.s 
Without   the    touches  of    the   poets 
hand. 


GEORGE  CROLY. 


91 


A  sacred  spark  created  by  His  'breath, 
The  immortal  mind  of  man  His  image 
bears ; 
A  spirit  living  'midst  the  forms  of  death, 
Oppressed  but  not  subdued  by  mortal 
cares ; 

A  germ,  preparing  in  the  winter's  frost 
To  rise,  and  bud,  and  blossom  in  the 
spring ; 

An  unfledged  eagle  by  the  tempest  tossed. 
Unconscious  of  his  future  strength  of 


The  child  of  trial,  to  mortality 

And  all  its  changeful  influences  given  ; 
On  the  green  earth  decreed  to  move  and 
die. 
And  yet  by  such  a  fate  prepared  for 
heaven. 

Soon  as  it  breathes,  to  feel  the  mother's 
form 
Of  orbed  beauty  through  its   organs 
thrill. 
To  press  the  limbs  of  life  with  rapture 
warm. 
And  drink  instinctive  of  a  living  rill ; 

To  view  the  skies  with  morning  radiance 
bright. 
Majestic  mingling  with  the  ocean  blue, 
Or  bounded  by  green  hills,  or  mountains 
white. 
Or  peopled  plains  of  rich  and  varied 
hue ; 

The  nobler  charms  astonished  to  behold. 
Of  living  loveliness, — to  see  it  move. 

Cast   in   ex])ressiou's    rich    and   varied 
mould. 
Awakening  sympathy,  compelling  love; 

The  heavenly  balm  of  mutual  hope  to 
taste. 
Soother   of   life,    affliction's   bliss    to 
share ; 
Sweet  as  the  stream  amidst  the  desert 
waste, 
As  the  first  blush  of  arctic  daylight 
fair; 

To  mingle  with  its  kindred,  to  descry 
The  path  of  power ;  in  public  life  to 
shine ; 

To  gain  the  voice  of  popularity. 
The  idol  of  to-day,  the  man  divine ; 


To  govern  others  by  an  influence  strong 
As   that  high  law  which  moves  the 
murmuring  main, 
Raising  and  carrying  all  its  waves  along. 
Beneath  the  full-orbed  moon's  merid- 
ian reign ; 

To  scan  how  transient  is  the  breath  of 
praise, 
A  winter's  zephyr  trembling   on   the 
snow, 
Chilled  as  it  moves ;  or,  as  the  northern 
rays. 
First  fading  in  the  centre,  whence  they 
flow. 

To  live  in  forests  mingled  with  the  whole 
Of  natural   forms,  whose  generations 
rise. 
In  lovely  change,  in  happy  order  roll. 
On   land,  in   ocean,  in   the  glittering 
skies ; 

Their  harmony  to  trace ;  the  Eternal  cause 
To  know  in  love,  in  reverence  to  adore ; 

To  bend  beneath  the  inevitable  laws. 
Sinking  in  death,  its  human  strength 
no  more ! 

Then,  as   awakening  from  a  dream  of 
pain, 
"With  joy  its   mortal   feelings  to  re- 
sign; 
Yet  all  its  living  essence  to  retain, 
The  undying  energy  of  strength  divine ! 

To  quit  the  burdens  of  its  earthly  days, 
To   give  to  nature  all  her  borrowed 
powers,  — 
Ethereal  fire  to  feed  the  solar  rays. 
Ethereal  dew  to  glad  the  earth  with 
showers. 


GEORGE  CROLY. 

[1780-1860.] 

CUPID  GROWN  CAEEFTJL. 

There  was  once  a  gentle  time 
Wlien  the  world  was  in  its  prime ; 
And  every  day  was  holiday. 
And  every  month  was  lovely  May. 
Cupid  then  had  but  to  go 
With  his  purple  wings  and  bow ; 


92 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTUEIES. 


And  in  blossomed  vale  and  grove 
Every  shepherd  knelt  to  love. 

Then  a  rosy,  dimyded  cheek, 
And  a  blue  eye,  fond  and  meek; 
And  a  ringlet-wreathen  brow, 
Like  hyacinths  on  a  bed  of  snow: 
And  a  low  voice,  silver  sweet, 
From  a  lip  without  deceit ; 
Only  those  the  hearts  could  move 
Of  the  simple  swains  to  love. 

But  that  time  is  gone  and  past, 
Can  the  summer  always  last  ? 
And  the  swains  are  wiser  grown, 
And  the  heart  is  turned  to  stone, 
And  the  maiden's  rose  may  wither ; 
Cupid  's  fled,  no  man  knows  whither. 
But  another  Cupid  's  come, 
With  a  brow  of  care  and  gloom : 
Fixed  upon  the  earthly  mould, 
Tliinking  of  the  sullen  gold ; 
In  his  hand  the  bow  no  more, 
At  his  back  the  household  store, 
That  the  bridal  gold  must  buy : 
Useless  now  the  smile  and  sigh  : 
But  he  wears  the  pinion  still, 
Flying  at  the  sight  of  ill. 

0,  for  the  old  true-love  time, 
When  the  world  was  in  its  prime ! 


HENRY  KIEKE  WHITE. 

[1785 -1806.] 

TO  TKE  HERB  ROSEMARY. 

SwEET-srENTED  flower !  who  "rt  wont  to 
bloom 
*~)n  January's  front  severe, 
And  o'er  the  wintry  desert  drear 

To  waft  thy  waste  perfume ! 
Come,  thou  shalt  fortn  my  nosegay  now. 
And  I  will  bind  thee  round  my  brow ; 

And  as  I  twine  the  mournful  \vreath, 
I  '11  weave  a  melancholy  song: 
And  sweet  the  strnin  shall  be  and  long. 

The  melody  of  death. 

Corne,  funeral  flower !  who  lov'st  to  dwell 
With  the  pale  cory)se  in  lonely  tomb, 
And  throw  across  the  desert  gloom 
A  sweet  decaying  smell. 


Come,    press  my  lips,   and  lie  with 

me 
Beneath  the  lowly  alder-tree, 

And  we  will  sleep  a  pleasant  sleep, 
And  not  a  care  shall  dare  intrude, 
To  break  the  marble  solitude 

So  peaceful  and  so  deep. 

And  hark !  the  wind-god,  as  he  flies, 
Moans  hollow  in  the  forest  trees. 
And  sailing  on  the  gusty  breeze. 

Mysterious  music  dies. 
Sweet  flower!   that  requiem  wild  is 

mine. 
It  warns  me  to  the  lonely  shrine, 
The  cold  turf  altar  of  the  dead ; 
My  grave  shall  be  in  yon  lone  spot. 
Where  as  I  lie,  by  all  tbrgot, 
A  dying  fragi-ance  thou  wilt  o'er  my 
ashes  shed. 


TO  AN  EARLY  PRIMROSE. 

Mild   offspring  of  a  dark  and  sidlen 
sire ! 

WHiose  modest  form,  so  delicately  fine. 
Was  nursed  in  whirling  storms, 
And  cradled  in  the  winds. 

Thee,  when  young  Spring  first  questioned 

Winter's  sway, 
And  dared  the  sturdy  blusterer  to  the 
fight. 
Thee  on  this  bank  he  threw 
To  mark  his  victory. 

In  this  low  vale,   the  promise  of  the 

year. 
Serene,  thou  openest  to  the  nipping  gale. 

Unnoticed  and  alone. 

Thy  tender  elegance. 


So  virtue  blooms,  brought  forth  amid 

the  storms 
Of  chill  adversity ;  in  some  lone  walk 

Of  life  she  rears  her  head. 

Obscure  and  unobserved ; 

While  every  bleaching  breeze  that  on  her 

blows 
Chastens  her  spotless  purity  of  breast, 

And  hardens  her  to  bear 

Serene  the  ills  of  life. 


HERBERT  KNOWLES. 


93 


THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

When  marshalled  on  the  nightly  plain, 
The  glittering  host  bestud  the  sky ; 

One  star  alone,  of  all  the  train, 
Can  fix  the  sinner's  wandering  eye. 

Hark !  hark !  to  God  the  chorus  breaks, 
From  every  host,  from  every  gem  : 

But  one  alone  the  Saviour  speaks, 
It  is  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

Once  on  the  raging  seas  I  rode. 

The   storm  was  loud,  tlie  night  was 
dark, 
The  ocean  yawned,  and  rudely  blowed 
The  wind  that  tossed  my  foundering 
bark. 


Deep  horror  then  my  vitals  froze, 
Death-struck,   I   ceased   the  tide    to 
stem ; 

Wlien  suddeidy  a  star  arose,  — 
It  was  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

It  was  my  guide,  my  light,  my  all. 
It  bade  my  dark  forebodings  cease ; 

And  thi-ough  the  storm  and   dangers' 
thrall. 
It  led  me  to  the  port  of  peace. 

Now  safely  moored,  my  perils  o'er, 
I  '11  sing,  first  in  night's  diadem, 

Forever  and  forevermore 
The  Star!— the  Star  of  Bethlehem! 


HERBERT  KNOWLES. 
[1798- 1827.] 

LINES     WRITTEN    IN    RICHMOND 
CHURCHYARD,  YORKSHIRE. 

"  It  is  good  for  us  to  be  here ;  if  thou  wilt, 
let  us  make  here  three  taheniacles ;  one  for 
thee,  and  one  for  Moses,  and  one  for  Elias."  — 
Matt.  xvli.  4. 


Methinks  it  is  good  to  be  here ; 
If  thou  wilt,  let   us   build  —  but 
whom  ? 
Nor  Elias  nor  Moses  appear, 


for 


But  the  shadows  of  eve  that  encompass 

the  gloom. 
The  abode  of  the  dead  and  the  place  of 

the  tomb. 

Shall  we  build  to  Ambition  ?     0,  no ! 
Affrighted,  he  shrinkcth  away ; 

Foi;   see !    they   would   piu   him   be- 
low, 
In  a  small  narrow  cave,  and,  begirt  with 

cold  clay, 
To  the  meanest  of  reptiles  a  peer  and  a 
prey. 

To  Beauty?  ah,  no!  —  she  forgets 
The  charms  which  she  wielded  before  — 
Nor  knows   the   foul   worm   that  he 
frets 
The  skin  which  but  yesterday  fools  could 

adore. 
For  the  smoothness  it  held,  or  the  tint 
which  it  wore. 

Shall   we    build    to    the    purple    of 
Pride  — 
The  trappings  which  dizen  the  proud  ? 

Alas  !  they  are  all  laid  aside ; 
And  here  's  neither  dress  nor  adornment 

allowed. 
But  the  long  winding-sheet  and  the  fringe 
of  the  shroud. 

To  Eiches  ?  alas  !  't  is  in  vain ; 
AVho  hid,  in  their  turn  have  been  hid  : 
The  treasures  are  squandered  again ; 
And  here  in  the  grave  are  all  metals  for- 
bid. 
But  the  tinsel  that  shines  on  the  dark 
coffin-Ud. 

To    the  pleasures  which   Mirth   can 
afford,  — 
The  revel,  the  laugh,  and  the  jeer  ? 

Ah !  here  is  a  plentiful  board  ! 
But  the  guests  are  all  mute  as  their  piti- 
ful clieer. 
And  none  but  the  worm  is  a  reveller 
here. 

Shall    we     build    to    Affection    and 
Love? 
Ah,  no  !  they  have  withered  and  died. 

Or  fled  with  the  si^irit  above ; 
Friends,  brothers,  and  sisters  are  laid  side 

by  side, 
Yet  none  liave  saluted,  and  none  have 
replied. 


94 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Unto    Sorrow  ?  —  The    dead    cannot 
grieve ; 
Not  a  sob,  not  a  sigh  meets  mine  ear, 
Which   compassion    itself    could   re- 
lieve ! 
Ah  !  sweetly  they  slumber,  norhope,  love, 

nor  fear,  — ■ 
Peace,  peace  is  the  watchword,  the  only 
one  here ! 

Unto  Death,  to  whom  monarchs  must 
bow? 
Ah,  no  !  for  his  empire  is  known, 
Aud  here  there  are  trophies  enow  1 


Beneath — the  cold  dead,  and  around — 

the  dark  stone, 
Are  the  signs  of  a  sceptre  that  none  may 

disown  ! 

The  first  tabernacle  to  Hope  we  will 

build, 

And  look  for  the  sleepers  around  us  torise ; 

The  second  to  Faith,  which  insures  it 

fulfilled ; 

And  the  third  to  the  Lamb  of  the  great 

sacrifice. 
Who  bequeathed  us  them  both  when  he 
rose  to  the  skies. 


FROM  WORDSWORTH  TO  LONGFELLOW. 


From  Wordsworth  to  Longfellow. 


WILLIAM  WOKDSWOETH. 

[1770-1850.] 
INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY 

FROM  Recollections  op  Early  Childuood. 

TiiEKE  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove, 

and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light. 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore;  — 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 
By  night  or  day. 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can 
see  no  more. 


The  rainbow  comes  and  goes, 
And  lovely  is  the  rose  ; 
The  moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are 
bare ; 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair ; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth : 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go. 
That  there  hath  passed  away  a  gloiy  from 
the  earth. 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous 
song. 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound. 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of 

gr-ief ; 
A  timely  utterance  gave   that   thought 
relief. 
And  I  again  am  strong. 
7 


The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from 

the  steep,  — 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season 

wrong : 
I  hear  the  echoes  through  the  mountains 

throng, 
The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of 
sleeji. 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay ; 
Land  and  sea 
Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 
And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  boast  keej)  holiday;  — 
Thou  child  of  joy, 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts, 
thou  happy  shepherd  boy ! 

Ye  blessed  creatures,  I  have  heard  the 
call 
Ye  to  each  otlier  make ;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh   with  you  in  your 
jubilee ; 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival. 
My  head  hath  its  coronal. 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel  —  I  feel 
it  all. 

0  evil  day !  if  I  were  sullen 
While  Earth  herself  is  adorning, 

This  sweet  May  morning, 
And  the  children  are  culling. 

On  every  side, 
In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 
Fresh  flowers ;  while  the  sun  shines 
warm, 
And  the  babe  leaps  up  on  his  mother's 
arm :  — 

1  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear ! 

—  But  there  's  a  tree,  of  many  one, 
A   single    field    which    I    have    looked 

upon, — 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is 

gone; 


98 


SOKGS   OF   THREE    CENTUEIES. 


The  pansy  at  my  feet 
Doth  the  same  tale  repeat. 

Wliither  is  tied  the  visionary  gleam  ? 

"Where   is   it   now,   the    glory   and   the 
dream  ? 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forget- 
ting : 
The  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's 
star, 
Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 

And  Cometh  from  afar ; 
Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 
And  not  in  utter  nakedness. 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory,  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home  : 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  boj^  ; 
V>nt  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it 
fiowTS,  — 
He  sees  it  in  his  joy. 
The  j'^outh   who  daily  farther  from  the 
east 
Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  priest. 
And  by  the  vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended  ; 
At    length    the    man    perceives    it    die 

away, 
And    fade   into   the    light   of    common 
day. 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her 

own ; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural 

kind, 
And  even  with  something  of  a  mother's 
mind, 
And  no  unworthy  aim, 
Th(^  homely  nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  foster-child,  her  inmate  man. 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 
A  nd  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

Behold  the  child   among  his   new-born 

blisses, 
A  six  years'  darling  of  a  pygmy  size  ! 
See  where  mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he 

lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses. 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's 

eyes ! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart. 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human 

life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly  learned 

art,  — 


A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral,  — 
And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  tins  he  frames  his  song : 
Then  will  lie  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife ; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  tliis  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  actor  cons  another  part ; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  humorous 

stage 
With  all  the  persons,  down  to  palsied  age, 
That  Life  brings  with  h  c  r  in  her  equipage ; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  helie 

Thy  soul's  immensity ; 
Thou  best  philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage ;  thou  eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal 

deep, 
Haunted  forever  by  the  eternal  mind,  — 
I\Iighty  prophet !     Seer  blest ! 
On  whom  those  truths  do  rest 
Wliicli  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In darknesslost,  thedarknessof  thegrave ; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  immortality 
Broods  like  the  day,  a  master  o'er  a  slave, 
A  presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by ; 
Tliou  little  child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom,  on  thy  being's 

height, 
Why  with  sucli  earnest  pains  dost  thou 

provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke. 
Thus   blindly  witli   thy    blessedness  at 

strife  ? 
Full  soon  thy  soul  shall  have  her  earthly 

freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life  ! 

0  joy  !  that  in  our  embers 
Is  something  that  doth  live ; 
That  Nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive ! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  mc  doth 

bn^ed 
Perpetual  benediction :  not  indeed 
For  that   which   is   most  worthy  to  be 

blest ; 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  ci'eod 
Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest. 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in 
his  breast: — 


WILLIAM   WOEDSWOETH. 


99 


Not  for  tliesp  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise ; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings, 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized. 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal 

nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised : 
But  for  those  fii'st  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing; 
Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power 
to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  silence  :  truths  that  wake, 

To  perish  never ; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  en- 
deavor. 

Nor  man  nor  boy. 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy. 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  desti'oy ! 

Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather, 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither; 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
Andseethechiltlren  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  ever- 
more. 

Then,  sing,  ye  birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous 
song! 
And  let  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound ! 
We,  in  thought,  will  join  your  throng, 
Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 
Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 
Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May ! 
WTiat  though  the  radiance   which   was 

once  so  bright 
Be  now  forever  taken  from  my  sight ; 

Though  nothingcan  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendor  in  the  gi-ass,  of  glory  in  the 
flower,  — 
We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind ; 
In  the  primal  sympathy 
Which,  having  been,  must  ever  be ; 
In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering; 
In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In    years    that    bring    the    philosophic 
mind. 


And  0  ye  fountains,  meadows,  hills,  and 

groves, 
Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves ! 
Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might ; 
I  only  have  relimpiished  one  delight, 
To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 
I   love   the   brooks   which    down    their 

channels  fret. 
Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly 

as  they ; 
The  innocent  brightness  of  anew-born  day 

Is  lovely  yet ; 
The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting 

sun 
Do  take  a  sober  coloring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mor- 
tality ; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms 

are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we 

live. 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys  and 

fears. 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can 

give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for 

tears. 


THE  DAFFODILS. 

I  WANDERED  lonely  as  a  clo\;d 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

AVhen  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host  of  golden  daffodils. 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  Milky  Wa}% 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay  : 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance. 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 

Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee: 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay 

In  such  a  jocund  company ! 

I  gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought ; 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood. 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude  : 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills  ; 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 


100 


SONGS  OF  THREE  CENTURIES. 


TO  THE  CUCKOO. 

0  BLITHE  new-comer !  I  liave  heard, 

1  liear  thee,  and  rejoice  : 

0  eiickoo !  shall  I  call  thee  bird. 
Or  but  a  wandering  voice  ? 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass 
Thy  twofold  shout  I  hear ; 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 
At  once  far  off  and  near. 

Though  babbling  only  to  the  vale 
Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers. 
Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  tale 
Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  spring ! 
Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 
No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing, 
A  voice,  a  mystery ; 

The  same  whom  in  my  school-boy  days 

1  listened  to  ;  that  cry 

Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways. 
In  bush  and  tree  and  sky. 

To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 
Through  woods  and  on  the  green ; 
And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love; 
Still  longed  for,  never  seen  ! 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet ; 
Can  lie  upon  tlie  plain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  beget 
That  golden  time  again. 

O  blessed  bird !  the  earth  we  pace 
Again  appears  to  be 
An  unsubstantial,  fairy  place 
That  is  fit  home  for  thee ! 


A  MEMORY. 

TnuKK  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower ; 
Then  Nature  said,  "A  lovelier  flower 

On  eaith  was  never  sown  : 
This  child  I  to  myself  will  take ; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 

A  lady  of  my  own. 

"Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 
Both  law  and  inijiulse  ;  and  with  me 

The  girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 
In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 
Sliall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 


"  She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn. 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 

Or  up  the  mountain  springs ; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm. 

Of  mute  insensate  things. 

"The   floating  clouds  their  state  shall 

lend 
To  her ;  for  her  the  willow  bend ; 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
E'en  in  the  motions  of  the  storm 
Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

"The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 
To  her ;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place. 
Where   rivulets   dance    their    wayward 

round. 
And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 

"And  vital  feelings  of  delight 
Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height. 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell ; 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 
While  she  and  I  together  live 

Here  in  this  happy  dell." 

Thus  Nature  spak  e.  The  work  was  done — 
How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run  ! 

She  died,  and  left  to  me 
This  heath,  this  calm  and  quiet  scene ; 
The  memory  of  what  has  been, 

And  nevermore  will  be. 


SHE  WAS  A  PHANTOM  OF  DELIGHT. 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight ; 
A  lovely  apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair ; 
Like  twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair ; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  ]\Iay-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn ; 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay. 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too  ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 


101 


A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  Imnian  nature's  daily  food, 
For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 
Praise,   blame,  love,   kisses,  tears,  and 
smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine ; 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  between  life  and  death  ; 
The  reason  firm,  the  temijerate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight, strength,  and  skill ; 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command ; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel  light. 


YARROW  TJNVISITED. 

From  Stirling  Castle  we  had  seen 

The  mazy  Forth  unravelled ; 
Had  trod  the  banks  of  Clyde  and  Tay, 

And  with  the  Tweed  had  travelled ; 
And  when  we  came  to  Clovenford, 

Then  said  my  "winsome  Marrow," 
"Whate'er  betide,  we  '11  turn  aside, 

And  see  the  Braes  of  Yarrow." 

"Let  Yarrow  folk,  frae  Selkirk  town, 

Who  have  been  buying,  selling, 
Go  back  to  Yanow,  't  is  their  own, 

Each  maiden  to  her  dwelling ! 
On  Yarrow's  banks  let  herons  feed. 

Hares  couch,  and  ra1)bits  burrow  ! 
But  we  will  downward  with  the  Tweed, 

Nor  turn  aside  to  Yarrow. 

"There  *s  Galla  Water,  Leader  Haughs, 

Both  lying  right  before  us  ; 
And    Dryburgh,    where    with    chiming 
Tweed 

The  lintwhites  sing  in  chorus ; 
There 's  j)leasant  Teviotdale,  a  land 

Made  blithe  with  plough  and  harrow : 
Why  throw  away  a  niwdi'ul  day 

To  go  in  search  of  Yarrow  ? 

"What 's  Yarrow  but  a  river  bare. 

That  glides  the  dark  hills  under? 
There  are  a  thousand  such  elsewhere 

As  worthy  of  your  wonder." 
—  Strange  words  they  seemed  of  slight 
and  scorn ; 

My  true-love  sighed  for  sorrow. 
And  looked  me  in  the  face,  to  thmk 

I  thus  could  speak  of  YaiTow ! 


"0,    green,"    said    I,    "are    Yarrow's 
holms. 

And  sweet  is  Yarrow  flowing  ! 
Fair  hangs  the  apple  frae  the  rock, 

But  we  will  leave  it  growing. 
O'er  hilly  path  and  open  strath 

We  '11  wander  Scotland  thorough ; 
But,  though  so  near,  we  will  not  turn 

Into  the  dale  of  Yarrow. 

"Let  beeves  and  home-bred  kine  partake 

The  sweets  of  Burn  Mill  meadow ; 
The  swan  on  still  Saint  Mary's  Lake 

Float  double,  sw&n  and  shadow! 
We  will  not  see  them  ;  will  not  go 

To-day,  nor  yet  to-inoriow  ; 
Enough  if  in  our  hearts  we  know 

There 's  such  a  place  as  Yarrow. 

"  Be  Yarrow  stream  unseen,  unknown  ! 

It  must,  or  we  shall  rue  it : 
We  have  a  vision  of  our  own  ; 

Ah  !  why  should  we  undo  it  ? 
The  treasured  dreams  of  times  long  past. 

We  '11  keep  them,  winsome  ilarrow  ! 
For  when  we  're  there,  although  't  is  fair, 

'T  will  be  another  Yarrow ! 

"  If  care  with  freezing  yeais  should  come, 

And  wandering  seem  but  folly,  — 
Should  we  be  loath  to  stir  from  home, 

And  yet  be  melancholy ; 
Should  life  be  dull,  and  spirits  low, 

'T  will  soothe  us  in  our  sorrow 
That  earth  has  something  yet  to  show, 

The  bonny  holms  of  Yarrow !" 


ON  A  PICTURE  OF  PEELE  CASTLE  IN 
A  STORM. 

Painted  by  Sir  Geokge  Beaumont. 

I  WAS  thy  neighbor  once,  thou  rugged 

pile ! 
Four  summer  weeks  I  dwelt  in  sight  of 

thee : 
I  saw  thee  every  day ;  and  all  the  while 
Thy  form  was  sleeping  on  a  glassy  sea. 

So  pure  the  sky,  so  quiet  was  the  air ! 
So  like,  so  very  like,  was  day  to  day  ! 
Whene'er  I  looked,  thy  image  still  was 

there ; 
It  trembled,  but  it  never  passed  away. 


102 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


How  perfect  was  the  calm !     It  seemed 

no  sleep, 
No  mood,  which  season  takes  away,  or 

brings  : 
I   could  have  fancied  that  the  mighty 

Deep 
"Was  even  the  gentlest  of  all  gentle  things. 

Ah !  then  if  mine  had  been  the  painter's 

hand 
To  express  what  then  I  saw;   and  add 

the  gleam. 
The  light  tliat  never  was  on  sea  or  land. 
The  consecration,  and  the  poet's  dream,  — • 

I  would  have  planted  thee,  thou  hoary 

pile, 
Amid  a  world  liow  different  from  this ! 
Beside  a  sea  that  could  not  cease  to  smile ; 
On  tranquil  land,  beneath  a  sky  of  bliss. 

A  picture  had  it  been  of  lasting  ease, 
Elysian  quiet,  without  toil  or  strife ; 
No  motion  l)ut  the  moving  tide,  a  breeze ; 
Or  merely  silent  Nature's  breathing  life. 

Such,  in  the  fond  illusion  of  my  heart, 
Such  picture  would  I  at  that  time  have 

made ; 
And  seen  the  soul  of  truth  in  every  part, 
A   steadfast   peace  that  might  not   be 

betrayed. 

So  once  it  would  have  been,  — 't  is  so  no 

more ; 
I  have  submitted  to  a  new  control : 
A   power  is  gone,  which   nothing   can 

restore  ; 
A  deep  distress  hath  humanized  my  soul. 

Not  for  a  moment  could  I  now  behold 
A  snuling  sea,  and  be  what  I  have  been : 
The   feeling   of  my  loss  will   ne'er   be 

old; 
This,  which  I  know,  I  speak  with  mind 

serene. 

Then,  Beaumont,  Friend !  who  would 
have  been  the  friend. 

If  he  had  lived,  of  him  whom  I  deplore, 

This  work  of  thine  I  blame  not,  luii  com- 
mend ; 

This  sea  in  anger,  and  that  dismal  shore. 

0,  'tis  a  passionate  work  ! — yet  wise  and 

well. 
Well  chosen  is  the  spirit  that  is  here; 


That  hulk  which  labors  in  the  deadly 

swell. 
This  iiieful  sky,  this  pageantry  of  fear ! 

And  this  huge  castle,  standing  here  sub- 
lime, 

I  love  to  see  the  look  with  which  it 
braves — 

Cased  in  the  unfeeling  armor  of  old 
time  — 

The  lightning,  the  fierce  wind,  and  tramp- 
ling waves. 

Farewell,  farewell   the  heart  that  lives 

alone. 
Housed  in  a  dream,  at  distance  from  the 

kind ! 
Such  happiness,  wherever  it  be  known, 
Is  to  be  pitied ;  for  't  is  surely  blind. 

But  welcome  fortitude,  and  ])atient  cheer, 
And  frequent  sights  of  what  is  to   be 

borne ! 
Such  sights,  or  worse,  as  are  before  nie 

here :  — ■ 
Not  without  hope  we  suffer  and  we  mourn. 


ODE  TO  DUTY. 

Sterx  daughter  of  the  voice  of  God ! 
0  Duty  !  if  that  name  thou  love, 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 
To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove; 
Thou  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe, 
From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free. 
And  calm'st  tJie  weary  strife  of  frail  hu- 
manity ! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them ;  who,  in  love  and  truth,      , 
Where  no  iiiisgiviug  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  stnise  of  youth  : 
Glad  hearts!  without  reproach  or  blot; 
Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not: 
May  joy  be  theirs  wliile  life  shall  last ! 
And  thou,  if  they  should  totter,  teacH 
them  to  stand  fast ! 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bi-ight, 
And  happy  will  oui'  nature  be, 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 
And  j(iy  its  own  semirity. 
And  bli'st  are  they  who  in  the  main 
This  faith,  even  now,  do  entertain : 


WILLIAM  WOEDSWOETH. 


103 


live  ill  the  spirit  of  this  creed ; 
Yet  find  that  other  strength,  according  to 
their  need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried. 
No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 
Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide. 
Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust ; 
Full  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  1  deferred 
The  task  imposed,  from  day  to  day ; 
But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strict- 
ly, if  I  may. 

Through  no  distiu-bance  of  ray  soul, 

Or  strong  comiiunction  in  me  wrought, 

I  supplicate  for  thy  control ; 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought : 

Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires ; 

I  feel  the  weight  of  chance  desires ; 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their 

name, 
I  long  for  a  repose  which  ever  is  the  same. 

Stern  lawgiver !  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace ; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  ujiou  thy  face. 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds, 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong, 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through 
thee,*are  fresh  and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  power ! 
I  call  thee  :  I  myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour ; 
0,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end  ! 
Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice ; 
The  confidence  of  reason  give ; 
And,  in  the  light  of  truth,  thy  bondman 
let  me  live ! 


TO  SLEEP. 

A  FLOCK  of  slieep  that  leisurely  pass  by 
One  after  one ;  the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 
Murmuring;   the   fall   of  rivers,   winds 

and  seas. 
Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water,  and 

pure  sky;  — 

I  've  thought  of  all  by  turns,  and  still  I 

lie 
Sleepless;    and   soon    the   small   birds' 

melodies 


Must  hear,  first  uttered  from  my  orchard 

trees. 
And  the  first  cuckoo's  melancholy  cry. 

Even  thus  last  night,  and  two  nights 

more  I  lay, 
And  could  not  win  thee.  Sleep !  by  any 

stealth : 
So  do  not  let  me  wear  to-night  away : 
Without  thee  what  is  all  the  morning's 

wealth  ? 
Come,  blessed  barrier  between  day  and 

day. 
Dear  mother  of  fresh  thouglits  and  joyous 

health  ! 

THE  WORLD. 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us ;  late  and 

soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our 

powers : 
Little  we  see  in  nature  that  is  ours ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid 

boon ! 
This  sea   that  bares   her  bosom  to  the 

moon. 
The   winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all 

hours 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping 

flowers. 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of 

tune ; 
It  moves  us  not.     Great  God  !  I  'd  rather 

be 
A  pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn  ; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less 

forlorn. 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  coming  from  the 

sea, 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed 

hom. 

TO  THE  RIVER  DTJDDON. 

I  THOUGHT  of  thee,  my  partner  and  my 
guide. 
As  being  passed  away, — vain  sympa- 
thies ! 
For  backward,  Duddon  !  as  I  cast  my 
eyes, 
I  see  what  was,  and  is,  and  will  abide : 
Still  glides  the  stream,  and  shall  forever 
glide ; 
The  form  remains,  the  function  never 
dies; 


104 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


While  we,  the  brave,  the  mighty,  and 
the  wise. 
We  men,  who   in   our  morn  of  youth 

defied 
The  elements,  must  vanish ; — be  it  so ! 
Enougli,  if  something  from  our  hands 

have  power 
To  live,  and  act,  and  serve  the  future 
hour ; 
And   if,  as  toward  the  silent  tomb   we 
go, 
Through  love,  through  hojie,  and  faith's 
transcendent  dower, 
We  feel  that  we  are  greater  than  we  know. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 
[1771-1832.] 

YOTJNG  LOCHHTVAR. 

O,  YOUNG  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the 

west, 
Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed 

was  the  best ; 
And  save  his  good  broadsword  he  weapon 

had  none. 
He  rode   all  unanned,  and  he  rode  all 

alone. 
So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in 

war. 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young 

Lochinvar ! 

He  stayed  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped 
not  for  stone, 

He  swam  the  Esk  River  where  ford  there 
was  none ; 

But,  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came 
late : 

For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in 
war. 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Loch- 
invar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 
'Mong    bridesmen,    and    kinsmen,   and 

brotliers,  and  all ! 
Then  spoken  tlie  bride's  father,  his  hand 

on  liis  sword,  — 
For   the   poor   craven   bridegroom   said 

never  a  word,  — 


"0,  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in 

war, 
Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord 

Lochinvar  ?" 

"I  long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit 

j'ou  denied : 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like 

its  tide ! 
And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost  love 

of  mine. 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup 

of  wine ! 
There    be    maidens    in    Scotland   more 

lovt'ly  by  tar. 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young 

Lochiuvar ! " 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet ;  the  knight 

took  it  up, 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw 

down  tlie  cup ! 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked 

up  to  sigh. 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  tear  in 

her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother 

could  bar,  — • 
"Now  tread  we  a  measure  !"  said  young 

Lochiuvar. 

So   stately  his   form,  and  so  lovely  her 

face, 
That   never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did 

gi-ace ! 
While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  fathcn- 

did  fume. 
And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his 

bonnet  and  plume. 
And      the     bride-maidens     whispered, 

"'T  were  better  by  fiir 
To   have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with 

young  Lochinvar ! " 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in 

her  ear, 
When  they  reached  the  hall  door,  and 

the  charger  stood  near, 
So  light  to  tlie  croupe  the  fair  lady  he 

swung, 
So  light   to   the   saddle  before  her  he 

sprung. 
"She  is  won!  we  .are  gone,  over  bank, 

bush,  and  scaur ; 
They'll  liave  licet  steeds  that  follow!" 

tpioth  young  Lochinvar. 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT. 


lo; 


There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes  of 

the  Netlierby  clan ; 
Fosters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they 

rode  and  they  ran  ; 
There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Canno- 

bie  Lea, 
But  the  lost  bride  of  Netlierby  ne'er  did 

they  see ! 
So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless   in 

war. 
Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young 

Lochiuvar  ? 


A  SEREKADE. 

Ah  !  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh, 

The  sun  has  left  the  lea. 
The  orange-flower  perfumes  the  bower, 

The  breeze  is  on  the  sea. 
The  lark,  his  lay  who  trilled  all  day. 

Sits  hushed  his  partner  nigh  ; 
Breeze,  bird,  and  flower  confess  the  hour, 

But  where  is  County  Guy  ? 

The  village  maid  steals  through  the  shade 

Her  shepherd's  suit  to  hear ; 
To  Beauty  shy,  by  lattice  high, 

Sings  high-born  Cavalier. 
The  star  of  Love,  all  stars  above. 

Now  reigns  o'er  earth  and  .sky. 
And  high  and  low  the  influence  know, — 

But  where  is  County  Guy  ? 


SONG. 

"A  WEARY  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid, 

A  weary  lot  is  thine  ! 
To  pull  the  thorn  thy  brow  to  braid, 

And  press  the  rue  for  wine ! 
A  lightsome  eye,  a  soldier's  mien, 

A  feather  of  the  blue, 
A  doublet  of  the  Lincoln-green,  — 

No  more  of  me  you  knew, 

My  love ! 
No  more  of  me  you  knew. 

"This  mom  is  merry  June,  I  trow, — 

The  rose  is  budding  fain  ; 
But  she  shall  bloom  in  winter  snow 

Ere  we  two  meet  again." 
He  turned  his  charger  as  he  spake, 

Upon  the  river  shore ; 
He  gave  his  bridle-reins  a  shake. 

Said,  "Adieu  forevennore, 

My  love ! 
And  adieu  forevermore. " 


LAY    OF    THE    IMPRISONED    HUNTS- 
MAN. 

My  hawk  is  tired  of  perch  and  hood. 
My  idle  greyhound  loathes  Ids  food, 
My  horse  is  weary  of  his  stall, 
And  I  am  sick  of  captive  thrall. 
I  wish  I  were  as  1  have  been,  , 

Hunting  the  hart  in  forests  green, 
With  bended  bow  and  bloodhound  free. 
For  that 's  the  life  is  meet  for  me. 

I  hate  to  learn  the  ebb  of  time 

From  yon  dull  steeple's  drowsy  chime, 

Or  mark  it  as  the  sunbeams  crawl, 

Lich  after  inch,  along  the  wall. 

The  lark  was  wont  my  matins  ring. 

The  sable  rook  my  vespers  sing ; 

These  towers,  although  a  king's  they  be, 

Have  not  a  hall  of  joy  for  me. 

No  more  at  dawning  morn  I  rise, 
And  sun  myself  in  Ellen's  eyes, 
Drive  the  fleet  deer  the  forest  through. 
And  homeward  wend  with  evening  dew  ; 
A  blithesome  welcome  blithely  meet, 
And  lay  my  trophies  at  her  feet. 
While  fled  the  eve  on  wing  of  glee, — 
That  life  is  lost  to  love  and  me ! 


THE  TROSACHS. 

The  western  waves  of  ebbing  day 
Rolled  o'er  the  glen  their  level  way ; 
Each  ])urple  peak,  each  flinty  spire, 
Was  bathed  in  floods  of  living  fire. 
But  not  a  setting  beam  could  glow 
Within  the  dark  ravines  below. 
Where  twined  the  path,  in  shadow  hid, 
Round  many  a  rocky  pyramid. 
Shooting  abrujitly  from  the  dell 
Its  thunder-splintered  pinnacle; 
Round  many  an  insulated  mass, 
The  native  bulwarks  of  the  pass. 
Huge  as  the  tower  which  builders  vain 
Presumptuous  piled  on  Shinar's  plain. 
Their  rocky  summits,  split  and  rent, 
Foruied  turret,  dome,  or  battlement, 
Or  seemed  fantastically  set 
With  cupola  or  minaret, 
Wild  crests  as  pagod  ever  decked. 
Or  mosque  of  Eastern  architect. 
Nor  were  these  earth-born  castles  bare, 
Nor  lacked  they  many  a  banner  fair  ; 
For,  from  their  shivered  brows  dis2)layed. 
Far  o'er  the  unfathomable  glade. 
All  twinkling  with  the  dew-drop  sheen. 


106 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTTJIIIES. 


The  biier-rose  fell  in  streamers  green, 
And  creeping  slinibs  of  tliouaaiul  dyes, 
Waved  in  the  west-wind's  summer  sighs. 

Boon  nature  scattered,  free  and  wild, 
Eachplantorflower,  the  mountain's  child. 
Here  eglantine  embalmed  the  air. 
Hawthorn  and  hazel  mingled  there; 
The  primrose  pale,  and  violet  flower. 
Found  in  each  cliff  a  narrow  bower; 
Foxglove  and  nightshade,  side  by  side. 
Emblems  of  punishment  and  pride. 
Grouped  their  dark  hues  with  every  stain, 
The  weather-beaten  crags  retain. 
AVith  boughs  that  quaked  at  every  breath, 
Gray  birch  and  aspen  wept  beneath ; 
Aloft,  the  ash  and  warrior  oak 
Cast  anchor  in  tiie  rifted  rock  ; 
And  higher  yet,  the  pine-tree  hung 
His  shattered  trunk,  and  frequent  flung, 
"Where  seemed  the  clitts  to  meet  on  high. 
His  boughs  athwart  the  narrowed  sky. 
Higliest  of  all,  where  white  peaks  glanced. 
Where  glistening  streamers  waved  and 

danced, 
The  wanderer's  eye  could  barely  view 
Tlie  summer  heaven's  delicious  blue; 
So  wondrous  wild,  the  whole  might  seem 
The  scenery  of  a  faiiy  dream. 
Onward,  amid  the  copse  'gan  peep 
A  narrow  inlet,  still  and  deep, 
Aflbrding  scarce  such  breadth  of  brim. 
As  served  the  wild-duck's  brood  to  swim ; 
Lost  for  a  space,  through  thickets  veering. 
But  broa<ler  when  again  aj^pearing. 
Tall  rocks  and  tufted  knolls  their  face 
Could  on  the  dark-blue  mirror  trace ; 
And  farther  as  the  hunter  strayed. 
Still  broader  sweep  its  channels  made. 
The  shaggy  mounds  no  longer  stood, 
Emerging  from  entangled  wood, 
But,  wave-encircled,  seemed  to  float. 
Like  castle  girdled  with  its  moat ; 
Yet  broader  floods  extending  still. 
Divide  them  from  their  parent  hill, 
Till  each,  retiring,  claims  to  be 
An  islet  in  an  inland  sea. 

And  now,  to  issue  from  the  glen. 

No  pathway  meets  the  wamlerer's  ken, 

Unless  he  climl),  with  footing  nice, 

A  far-projecting  precipice. 

The  broom's  tough  roots  his  ladder  made, 

TIk!  hazel  saplings  lent  their  aid  ; 

And  thus  an  airy  jioint  he  won, 

Wliere,  gleaming  with  the  setting  sun. 

One  burnished  sheet  of  living  gold, 


Loch-Katrine  lay  beneath  him  rolled; 

In  all  her  length  far  winding  lay. 

With  promontory,  creek,  and  bay. 

And  islands  that,  empurpled  bright, 

Floated  amid  the  livelier  light ; 

And  mountains,  that  like  giants  stand, 

To  sentinel  enchanted  land. 

High  on  the  south,  huge  Ben-venue 

Down  to  the  lake  in  masses  threw 

Crags,  knolls,  and   mounds,  confusedly 

hurled, 
The  fragments  of  an  earlier  world; 
A  wildering  forest  feathered  o'er 
His  ruined  sides  and  summit  hoar. 
While  on  the  north,  through  middle  air, 
Ben-an  heaved  high  his  forehead  bare. 

From  the  steep  promontory  gazed 
The  stranger,  raptured  and  amazed, 
And  "What  a  scene  were  here,"  he  cried, 
"For    princely   pomp    or    churchman's 

pride ! 
On  this  bold  brow,  a  lordly  tower ; 
In  that  soft  vale,  a  lady's  bower; 
On  yonder  meadow,  far  away, 
The  tunets  of  a  cloister  gray ; 
How  blithely  might  the  bugle-horn 
Chide,  on  the  lake,  the  lingering  morn  ! 
How  sweet,  at  eve,  the  lover's  lute, 
Chime,  when   the  groves  are  still   and 

mute ! 
And  when  the  midnight  moon  shouldlave 
Her  forehead  in  the  silver  wave. 
How  solemn  on  the  ear  would  come 
The  holy  matins'  distant  hum, 
While  the  dee])  peal's  commanding  tone 
Should  wake,  in  yonder  islet  lone, 
A  sainted  hermit  from  his  cell, 
To  drop  a  bead  with  every  knell,  — 
And  bugle,  lute,  and  bell,  and  all, 
Should  each  bewildered  straiig(U"  call 
To  friendly  feast  and  lighted  hall." 


CORONACH. 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain, 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest, 
Like  a  summer-dried  fountain. 

When  our  need  was  the  sorest. 
The  font  rea])iiearing 

From  tlie  rain-drops  shall  borrow; 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering, 

To  Duncan  no  morrow! 

The  hand  of  the  rea])er 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary, 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT. 


107 


But  the  voice  of  the  weeper     — 
Wails  manhood  in  glory. 

The  autumn  Minds,  rushing, 
AVaft  the  leaves  that  are  searest ; 

But  our  llower  was  in  flushing, 
When  blighting  was  nearest. 

Fleet  foot  on  the  correi, 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber, 
Bed  hand  in  the  foray. 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber ! 
Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain, 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river, 
Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain, 

Thou  art  gone,  and  forever. 


HYMN  OF  THE  HEBREW  MAID. 

When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved, 

Out  from  the  land  of  bondage  came, 
Her  father's  God  before  her  moved. 

An  awful  guide  in  smoke  and  flame. 
By  day,  along  the  astonished  lands, 

The  cloudy  pillar  glided  slow ; 
By  night,  Arabia's  crimsoned  sands 

Keturned  the  fiery  column's  glow. 

There  rose  the  choral  hynm  of  praise, 

And  trump  and  timbrel  answered  keen ; 
And  Zion's  daughters  poured  their  lays, 

With  priest's  and  warrior's  voice  be- 
tween. 
No  portents  now  our  foes  amaze,  — 

Forsaken  Israel  wanders  lone ; 
Our  fathers  would  not  know  thy  waj's. 

And  thou  hast  left  them  to  their  own. 

But,  present  still,  though  now  unseen. 

When  brightly  shines  the  prosperous 
day, 
Be  thoughts  of  thee  a  cloudy  screen. 

To  temper  the  deceitful  ray. 
And  0,  when  stoops  on  Judah's  path 

In  shade  and  storm  the  frequent  night. 
Be  thou,  long-suffering,  slow  to  wrath, 

A  burning  and  a  shining  light ! 

Our  harps  we  left  by  Babel's  streams,  — 

The  tyrant's  jest,  the  Gentile's  scorn ; 
No  censer  round  oi;r  altar  beams, 

And  mute  are  timbrel,  trump,  and  horn. 
But  thou  hast  said,  The  blood  of  goats. 

The  flesh  of  rams,  I  will  not  prize,  — 
A  contrite  heart,  and  humble  thoughts, 

Are  mine  accepted  sacrifice. 


CHRISTMAS-TIME. 

Heap  on  more  wood  ! — the  wind  is  chill ; 
But  let  it  whistle  as  it  will, 
We  '11  keep  our  Christmas  merry  still. 
Each  age  has  deemed  the  new-born  year 
The  fittest  time  for  festal  cheer : 
Even  heathen  yet,  the  savage  Dane 
At  lol  more  deep  the  mead  did  drain  ; 
High  on  the  beach  his  galleys  drew. 
And  feasted  all  his  ]iirate  crew; 
Then  in  his  low  and  pine-built  hall. 
Where    shields    and    axes    decked   the 

wall. 
They  gorged  upon  the  half-dressed  steer; 
Caroused  in  seas  of  sable  beer ; 
While  round,  in  brutal  jest,  were  thrown 
The  half-gnawed  rib  and  marrow-bone. 
Or  listened  all,  in  giim  delight. 
While  scalds  yelled  out  the  joys  of  fight. 
Then  forth  in  frenzy  would  they  hie, 
While  wildly  loose  their  red  locks  fly  ; 
And,  dancing  round  the  blazing  pile. 
They  make   such  barbarous  mirth  the 

while, 
As  best  might  to  the  mind  recall 
The  boisterous  joys  of  Odin's  hall. 

And  well  our  Christian  sires  of  old 
Loved  when  the  year  itscoursehad  rolled. 
And  brought  blithe  Christmas  back  again. 
With  all  his  hospitable  train. 
Domestic  and  religious  rite 
Gave  honor  to  the  holy  night : 
On  Christmas  eve  the  bells  were  rung ; 
On  Christmas  eve  the  mass  was  sung; 
That  only  night,  in  all  the  year. 
Saw  the  stoled  priest  the  chalice  rear. 
The  damsel  donned  her  kirtle  sheen  ; 
The  hall  was  dressed  with  holly  green ; 
Forth  to  the  wood  did  merry-men  go. 
To  gather  in  the  mistletoe. 
Then  opened  wide  the  baron's  hall 
To  vassal,  tenant,  serf,  and  all ; 
Power  laid  his  rod  of  rule  aside. 
And  Ceremony  doffed  his  pride. 
The  heir,  with  roses  in  his  shoes, 
Tliat  night  might  village  partner  choose ; 
The  lord,  underogating,  share 
The  vulgar  game  of  "post  and  pair." 
All  hailed,  with  uncontrolled  delight 
And  general  voice,  the  happy  night 
That  to  the  cottage,  as  the  crown. 
Brought  tidings  of  salvation  down. 

The  fire,  with  well-dried  logs  snpjdied. 
Went  roaring  up  the  chimney  wide ; 


108 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


The  huge  liall-tal)lc's  oaken  face, 
Scrubbed  till  it  shone  the  day  to  grace, 
Bore  tlien  upon  its  massive  board 
No  mark  to  part  the  S([uire  and  lord. 
Then  was  brought  in  the  lusty  brawn, 
By  old  blue-coated  serving-man  ; 
Then  the  grim  boar's  head  frowned  on 

high, 
Crested  with  bays  and  rosemary. 
Well  can  the  green-garbed  ranger  tell 
How,  when,  and  where  the  monster  fell ; 
What  dogs  before  his  death  he  tore, 
And  all  the  baiting  of  the  boar. 
The  wassail  round,  in  good  brown  bowls, 
Garnished  with  ribbons,  blithely  trowls. 
There  the  huge  sirloin  reeked  ;  hard  by 
Plum-porridge  stood,  and  Christmas  pie; 
Nor  failed  old  Scotland  to  produce, 
At  such  high-tide,  her  savory  goose. 
Then  came  the  merry  maskers  in. 
And  carols  roared  with  blithesome  din ; 
If  unmelodious  was  the  song. 
It  was  a  hearty  note,  and  strong. 
Who  lists  may  in  their  mumming  see 
Traces  of  ancient  mystery ; 
White  skirts  supplied  the  masquerade, 
And  smutted  cheeks  the  visors  made : 
But,  0,  what  maskers  richly  dight 
Can  boast  of  bosoms  half  so  light ! 
England  was  merry  England,  when 
Old  Christmas  brought  his  sports  again. 
'T  was  Christmas  broached  the  mightiest 

ale; 
'T  was  Christmas  told  the  merriest  tale ; 
A  Christmas  gaml)ol  oft  could  cheer 
The  poor  man's  heart  through  half  the 

year. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

[1772 -1834.] 

GENEVIEVE. 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour. 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay 
Beside  the  ruined  tower. 

The  moonshine  stealing  o'er  tlie  scene 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  cvo ; 


And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve! 

She  leaned  against  the  armed  man, 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight ; 
She  stood  and  listened  to  my  lay, 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
My  hope  !  my  joy !  my  Genevieve ! 
She  loves  me  best,  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story,  — 
An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 
For  well  she  knew,  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  Knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand ; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined :  and  ah ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush. 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  modest  grace ; 
And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face. 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  Knight, 
And  that  he  crossed  the  mountain-woods. 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night ; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade. 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend, 
This  miserable  Knight ! 

And  that  unknowing  what  he  did. 
He  Icajied  amid  a  murchn'ous  band. 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death, 
The  Lady  of  the  Laud ; 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


109 


And  how  she  wept,  and  clasped  his  knees ; 
And  how  she  tended  liiiii  in  vain; 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain ; 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave, 
And  how  his  nuuhiess  went  away, 
When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay ; 

—  His  dying  words —  hut  when  I  reached 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity ! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve; 
The  nmsie  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope. 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherished  long. 

She  wept  with  i)ity  and  delight. 
She  blushed  with  love,  and  virgin  shame ; 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved,  —  she  stepped  aside, 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept,  — 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye. 
She  fled  to  me  and  wejit. 

She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms. 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  embrace ; 
And,  bending  back  her  head,  looked  up. 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'T  was  partly  love,  and  partly  fear, 
And  partly  't  was  a  bashful  art 
That  I  might  rather  feel  than  see 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calmed  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm. 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride ; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  Bride. 


HYMN  BEFORE  SUNRISE,   IN  THE 
VALE  OF  CHAMOtJNI. 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning 

star 
In  his  steep  course  ?    So  long  he  seems 

to  pause 


On  thy  bald,  awful  head,  0  sovi-an  Blanc  ! 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 
Have  ceaselessly ;  but  thou,  most  awful 

Form  ! 
Eisest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines 
How  silently  !     Around  thee  and  above 
Deep  is  the  air,  and  dark,  substantial, 

black. 
An  ebon  mass :  methinks  thou  piercest  it 
As  with  a  wedge !  But  when  I  look  again. 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal 

shrine. 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity ! 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount !  I  gjized  upon 

thee, 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense. 
Didst  vanish  from  my  thoiight :  entranced 

in  prayer 

1  worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody, 
So  sweet  we  know  not  we  are  listening 

to  it. 
Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wert  blending  with 

my  thought. 
Yea,  with  my  life  and  life's  own  secret  joy. 
Till  the  dilating  soul,  enrapt,  transfused, 
Into  the  mighty  vision  passing,  theie, 
As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to 

Heaven ! 
Awake,  my  soul !  not  only  passive  ]iraise 
Thou  owest !   not  alone   these  swelling 

tears, 
Mute  thanks,  and  secret  ecstasy !  Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song !    Awake,  my  heart, 

awake ! 
Green  vales  and  icy  clilTs,  all  join  my 

hymn. 
Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovran  of  the 

vale ! 
0,  sti-uggling  with  the  darkness  all  the 

night. 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  st  rs, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when  they 

sink,  — 
Companion  of  the  morning  star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  Earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald, — wake,  0,  wake,  and  utter 

praise ! 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth  ? 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy 

light? 
Who  made   thee    parent    of   perpetual 

streams  ? 
And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents,  fiercely 

glad ! 
Who  called  j'ou  forth  from  night  and 
I  utter  death, 


110 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


From  dai-k  and  icycaverns  called  you  forth, 

Down   those  precipitous,   Wack,   jagged 
rocks, 

Forever  shattered  and  the  same  forever? 

Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 

Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and 
your  joy. 

Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam? 

And  who  commanded   (and  the  silence 
came). 

Here  let  the  billows  still'en  and  have  rest  ? 
Ye  ice-falls !  ye  that  from  the  moun- 
tain's brow 

Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain,  — 

Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty 
voice. 

And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest 
plunge ! 

Motionless  torrents  !  silent  cataracts ! 

Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of 
Heaven 

Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  ?    Who  bade 
the  sun 

Clothe  you  with  rainbows  ?     Who,  with 
living  flowers 

Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your 
feet?  — 

God!   let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout   of 
nations. 

Answer !  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God ! 

God !    sing,   ye    meadow  -  streams,  with 
gladsome  voice ! 

Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul- 
like sounds ! 

And  they  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of 
snow, 

And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder, 
God ! 
Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal 
frost ! 

Y''e  wild  goats  sporting  round  tlie  eagle's 
nest ! 

Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain- 
storm  ! 

Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the 
clouds ! 

Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  elements. 

Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with 
praise ! 
Thou,  too,  hoar  Mount !  with  thy  sky- 
pointing  peaks, 

Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  un- 
heard. 

Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the 
pure  serene. 

Into  the  (le])th  of  clouds  that  veil  thy 
breast,  — 


Thou  too  again,  stupendous  Mountain ! 

thou 
That  as  1  raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 
Slow  travelling  with  dim  eyes  sulfused 

with  tears. 
Solemnly  seemest  like  a  vapory  cloud 
To  rise  before  me  —  Rise,  O,  ever  rise. 
Rise  like  a  cloud   of  incense   from  the 

Earth ! 
Thou  kingly  Spirit  throned  among  the 

liills. 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  Earth  to 

Heaven, 
Great  hierarch !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  risingsun. 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises 

God. 


CHRISTABEL. 


'T  IS  the  middle  of  night  by  the  castle 

clock. 
And  the  owls  have  awakened  the  crowing 

cock ; 
Tu-whit !  tu-whoo ! 
And  hark,  again  !  the  crowing  cock, 
How  drowsily  it  crew. 

Sir  Leoline,  the  Baron  rich, 
Hatli  a  tootliless  mastifl'  bitch ; 
From  her  kennel  beneath  the  rock 
She  maketh  answer  to  the  clock. 
Four  for  the  quarters,  and  twelve  for  the 

hour ; 
Ever  and  aye,  by  shine  and  shower. 
Sixteen  short  howls,  not  over-loud ; 
Some  say,  she  sees  my  lady's  shroud. 

Is  the  night  chilly  and  dark  ? 
Tlie  night  is  chilly,  but  not  dark. 
The  thin  gray  cloud  is  spread  on  high, 
It  covers  but  not  hides  the  sky. 
Tlie  moon  is  behind,  and  at  the  full ; 
And  yet  she  looks  l)oth  small  and  dull. 
The  niglit  is  chill,  the  cloud  is  gray ; 
'T  is  a  month  before  the  niontli  of  May, 
And  the  Spring  conies  slowly  up  this  wny. 

Tlie  lovely  lady,  Christabel, 
Wliom  luu'  fatlier  loves  so  well, 
AVhat  makes  her  in  the  wood  so  late, 
A  furlong  from  the  castle  gate  ? 
She  had  dreams  all  yesternight 
Of  her  own  betrothed  knight  j 


SAMUEL   TAYLOK   COLERIDGE. 


Ill 


And  she  in  the  midnight  wood  will  pray 
For  the  weal  of  her  lover  that 's  far  away. 

She  stole  along,  she  nothing  spoke, 
The  sighs  she  heaved  were  sott  and  low, 
And  naught  was  green  upon  the  oak, 
But  moss  and  rarest  mistletoe : 
She  kneels  beneath  the  huge  oak-tree, 
And  in  silence  prayeth  she. 

The  lady  sprang  up  suddenly, 
The  lovely  lady,  Christabel ! 
It  moaned  as  near  as  near  can  be. 
But  what  it  is  she  cannot  tell. 
On  the  other  side  it  seems  to  be 
Of  the  huge,  broad-breasted,  old  oak-tree. 

The  night  is  chill ;  the  forest  bare ; 
Is  it  the  wind  that  nioaneth  bleak  ? 
There  is  not  wind  enough  in  the  air 
To  move  away  the  linglet  curl 
From  the  lovely  lady's  cheek,  — 
There  is  not  wind  enough  to  twirl 
The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan, 
That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can. 
Hanging  so  light,  and  hanging  so  high. 
On  the  topmost  twig  that  looks  up  at  the 
sky. 

Hush,  beating  heart  of  Christabel ! 
Jesu  Maria,  shield  her  well ! 
She  folded  her  arms  beneatii  her  cloak, 
And  stole  to  the  other  side  of  the  oak. 
What  sees  she  there  ? 

There  she  sees  a  damsel  bright, 
Drest  in  a  silken  robe  of  white, 
That  shadowy  in  the  moonlight  shone  . 
The  neck  that  made  that  white  robe  wan. 
Her  stately  neck,  and  arms  were  bare ; 
Her  blue-veined  feet  unsandalled  were, 
And  wildly  glittered  here  and  there 
The  gems  entangled  in  her  hair. 
I  guess,  't  was  frightful  there  to  see 
A  lady  so  richly  clad  as  she,  — 
Beautiful  exceedingly ! 

"Mary  mother,  save  me  now !" 
Said  Christabel;  "and  who  art  thou?" 

The  lady  strange  made  answer  meet, 
And  her  voice  was  faint  and  sweet : 
"Have  pity  on  my  sore  distress, 
I  scarce  can  speak  for  weariness." 
"Stretch  forth  thy  hand,  and  have  no 

fear!" 
Said    Christabel;    "how    earnest    thou 

here?" 


And  the  lady,  whose  voice  was  faint  and 

sweet, 
Did  thus  pursue  her  answer  meet  :  — 

"My  sire  is  of  a  noble  line. 
And  my  name  is  Geraldiue : 
Five  wariiors  seized  me  yestermorn,  — 
Me,  even  me,  a  maid  forlorn  ; 
They  choked  my  cries  with   force   and 

fright. 
And  tied  me  on  a  palfrey  white. 
The  palfrey  was  as  fleet  as  wind, 
And  they  rode  furiously  behind. 
They  spurred  amain,  their  steeds  were 

white. 
And  once  we  crossed  the  shade  of  night. 
As  sure  as  Heaven  shall  rescue  me, 
I  have  no  thought  what  men  they  be ; 
Nor  do  I  know  how  long  it  is 
(For  I  have  lain  entranced,  I  wis) 
Since  one,  the  tallest  of  the  five, 
Took  me  from  the  palfrey's  back, 
A  weary  woman,  scarce  alive. 
Some  muttered  words  his  comradesspoke  : 
He  placed  me  underneath  this  oak  ; 
He  swore  they  would  return  with  haste ; 
Whither  they  went  I  cannot  tell  — 
I  thought  I  heard,  some  minutes  past. 
Sounds  as  of  r.  castle-bell. 
Stretch  forth  thy  hand"  (thus  ended  she), 
"  And  help  a  wretched  maid  to  tlee." 

Then   Christabel   stretched  forth  her 
hand 
And  comforted  fair  Geraldine: 
' '  0  well,  bright  dame  !  may  you  command 
The  service  of  Sir  Leoline ; 
And  gladly  our  stout  chivalry 
Will  he  send  forth,  and  friends  withal, 
To  guide  and  gnaid  you  safe  and  free 
Home  to  j'our  noble  father's  hall." 

She  rose:    and  forth  with  steps  they 
passed 
That  strove  to  be,  and  were  not,  fast. 
Her  gracious  stars  the  lady  blest. 
And  thus  spake  on  sweet  Christabel: 
"All  our  household  are  at  rest, 
The  hall  as  silent  as  the  cell ; 
Sir  Leoline  is  weak  in  health. 
And  may  not  well  awakened  be. 
But  we  will  move  as  if  in  stealth, 
And  I  beseech  your  courtesy. 
This  night,  to  share  your  couch  with  me." 

They  crossed  the  moat,  and  Christabel 
Took  the  key  that  fitted  well ; 


112 


SONGS   OF   TIIKEE    CENTURIES. 


A  little  door  she  opened  straight, 

All  in  the  middle  of  the  gate ; 

The  gate  that   was   ironed   within   and 

without, 
Where    an    army   in   battle   array   had 

marched  out. 
The  lady  sank,  belike  through  pain, 
And  Christabel  with  might  and  main 
Lifted  her  up,  a  weary  weight, 
Over  the  threshold  of  the  gate : 
Then  the  lady  rose  again, 
And  moved,  as  she  were  not  in  pain. 

So  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear, 
They  crossed  the  court :  right  glad  they 

were. 
And  Christabel  devoutly  cried 
To  the  lady  by  her  side : 
"Praise  we  the  Virgin  all  divine 
"Who  hath  rescued  thee  from  thy  distress !" 
"x\las,  alas!"  said  Gerahline, 
I  cannot  speak  for  weariness."  — 
So  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear. 
They  crossed  the  court :  right  glad  they 

were. 

Outside  her  kennel  the  mastiff  old 
Lay  fast  asleep,  in  moonshine  cold. 
The  mastiff  old  did  not  awake. 
Yet  she  an  angry  moan  did  make ! 
And  what  can  ail  the  mastiff  bitch  ? 
Never  till  now  she  uttered  yell 
Beneath  the  eye  of  Christabel. 
rerha])s  it  is  the  owlet's  scritch ; 
For  what  can  ail  the  mastiff  bitch  ? 

They  passed  the  hall,  that  echoes  still, 
Pass  as  lightly  as  you  will ! 
The   brands  were  flat,  the  brands  were 

dying, 
Amid  their  own  white  ashes  lying; 
P)Ut  when  the  lady  jiassed,  there  came 
A  tongue  of  light,  a  fit  of  flame ; 
And  Christabel  saw  the  lady's  eye, 
And  nothing  else  saw  she  thereby. 
Save  the  boss  of  the  shield  of  Sir  Leoline 

tall, 
Which  hung  in  a  murky  old  niche  in  the 

wall. 
"0,  softly  tread  !"  said  Christabel, 
•'  My  father  scddom  sleepeth  well." 

Sweet  Christabel  her  feet  doth  bare, 
And,  jealoiis  of  the  listening  air, 
Th(!y  steal  their  way  from  stair  to  stair, 
Now  in  glimmer,  and  now  in  gloom. 
And  now  they  pass  the  liaron's  room. 


As  still  as  death  with  stifled  breath ! 
And  now  have  reached  her  elianiber  door; 
And  now  doth  Cleraldine  press  down 
The  rushes  of  the  chamber  floor. 

The  moon  shines  dim  in  the  open  air, 
And  not  a  moonbeam  enters  here. 
But  tliey  without  its  light  can  see 
The  chamber  carved  so  curiously, 
Carved  with  figures  strange  and  sweet. 
All  made  out  of  the  carver's  brain. 
For  a  lady's  chamber  meet : 
The  lamp  with  twofold  silver  chain 
Is  fastened  to  an  angel's  feet. 
The  silver  lamp  burns  dead  and  dim ; 
But  Christabel  the  lamp  will  trim. 
She  trimmed  the  lam]),  and  made  it  bright, 
And  left  it  swinging  to  and  fro, 
While  Geraldine,  in  wretched  plight, 
Sank  down  upon  the  floor  below. 

"0  weary  lady,  Geraldine, 
I  pray  you,  drink  this  cordial  wine  ! 
It  is  a  wine  of  virtuous  powers  ; 
My  mother  made  it  of  wild  flowers." 

"And  will  your  mother  pity  me. 
Who  am  a  maiden  most  forlorn?" 
Christabel  answered  :   "  Woe  is  me  ! 
She  died  the  hour  that  I  was  born. 
I  liave  heard  the  gray -haired  friar  tell. 
How  on  her  death-bed  she  did  say. 
That  she  should  hear  the  castle-bell 
Strike  tw'elve  upon  my  wedding-day. 

0  mother  dear  !  that  thou  wert  here  !" 
"I  would,"  said  Geraldine,  "she  were!" 
But  soon  with  altered  voice,  said  she  : 
"Ott",  wandering  mother !  Penk  and  pine  ! 

1  have  power  to  bid  thee  flee." 
Alas  !  what  ails  poor  Geraldine? 
Why  stares  she  with  unsettled  eye  ? 
Can  she  the  bodiless  dead  espy  ? 
And  why  M-ith  ludlow  voice  cries  she : 
"0(f,  woman,  off!  this  hour  is  mine,  — 
Though  thou  her  guardian  spirit  be, 
Off,  woman,  off!  'T  is  given  to  me." 

Then  Christabel  knelt  by  the   lady's 
side, 
And  raised  to  heaven  her  eyes  so  blue ; 
"Alas  !"  said  she,  "this  ghastly  ride,  — 
Dear  lady  !  it  hath  wihhjred  you  !" 
The  lady  wiped  her  moist  cokl  brow, 
And  faintly  said,  "  'T  is  over  now !" 

Again  the  wild-flower  wine  she  drank  : 
Her  fair  large  eyes  'gan  glitter  bright. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


113 


And  from  the  floor  whereon  she  sank 
The  lofty  lady  stood  uiniglit ; 
She  was  most  beautiful  to  see, 
Like  a  lady  of  a  far  couutree. 

And  thus  the  lofty  lady  spake  : 
"All  they  who  live  in  the  upper  sky 
Do  love  you,  holy  Christabel ! 
And  you  love  them,  and  for  their  sake 
And  for  the  good  which  me  befell, 
Even  I  in  my  degree  will  try. 
Fair  maiden,  to  recjuite  you  well. 
But  now  unrobe  yourself;  for  I 
Must  pray,  ere  yet  in  bed  I  lie." 

Quoth  Christabel,  ' '  So  let  it  be  ! " 
And  as  the  lady  bade,  did  she. 
Her  gentle  limbs  did  she  undress. 
And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness. 

But  through  her  brain,  of  weal  and  woe 
So  many  thoughts  moved  to  and  fro, 
That  vain  it  were  her  lids  to  close; 
So  half-way  from  the  bed  she  rose, 
And  on  her  elbow  did  recline 
To  look  at  the  Lady  Geraldine. 

Beneath  the  lamp  the  lady  bowed. 
And  slowly  rolled  her  eyes  around ; 
Then  drawing  in  her  breath  aloud. 
Like  one  that  shuddered,  she  unbound 
The  cincture  from  beneath  her  breast : 
Her  silken  robe  and  inner  vest 
Dropt  to  her  feet,  and  full  in  view, 
Behold !  her  bosom  and  half  her  side,  — 
A  sight  to  dream  of,  not  to  tell ! 
O,  shield  her !  shield  sweet  Christabel ! 

Yet  Geraldine  nor  speaks  nor  stirs ; 
Ah  !  what  a  stricken  look  was  hers ! 
Deep  from  within  she  seems  half-way 
To  lift  some  weight  with  sick  assay, 
And  eyes  the  maid  and  seeks  delay ; 
Then  suddenly  as  one'defied 
Collects  herself  in  scorn  and  pride. 
And  lay  down  by  the  maiden's  side !  — 
And  in  her  arms  the  maid  she  took. 

Ah  well-a-day ! 
And  with  low  voice  and  doleful  look, 

These  words  did  say  : 
' '  In  the  touch  of  this  bosom  there  worketh 

a  spell 
"WTiichislord  of  thyi;tterance, Christabel ! 
Thou  knowest  to-night,  and  wilt  know 

to-morrow 
This  mark  of  my  shame,  this  seal  of  my 

sorrow ; 

8 


But  vainly  thou  warrest, 

For  this  is  alone  in 
Thy  ])ower  to  declare ; 

That  in  the  dim  forest 
Thou  heard'st  a  low  moaning. 
And  fourid'st  a  bright  lady,  surpassingly 

fair : 
And  didst  bring  her  home  with  thee  in 

love  and  in  charity. 
To  shield  her  and  shelter  her  from  the 
damp  air." 

THE   CONCLUSION   TO   PAIIT   I. 

It  was  a  lovely  sight  to  see 
The  Lady  Christabel,  when  she 
Was  praying  at  the  old  oak-tree. 

Amid  the  jagged  shadows 
Of  mossy  leafless  boughs. 

Kneeling  in  the  moonlight, 
To  make  her  gentle  vows ; 
Her  slender  palms  together  prest, 
Heaving  sometimes  on  her  breast ; 
Her  face  resigned  to  bliss  or  bale,  — 
Her  face,  0,  call  it  fair,  not  [lale  ! 
And  both  blue  eyesmore  bright  than  clear, 
Each  about  to  have  a  tear. 

With  open  eyes  (ah,  woe  is  me !) 
Asleep,  and  dreaming  fearfully. 
Fearfully  dreaming,  yet,  I  wis. 
Dreaming  that  alone  which  is  — 
0  sorrow  and  shame !     Can  this  be  she. 
The  lady,  who  knelt  at  the  old  oak-tree  ? 
Ai\d  lo  !  the  worker  of  these  harms. 
That  holds  the  maiden  in  her  arms. 
Seems  to  slumber  still  and  mild, 
As  a  mother  with  her  child. 

A  star  hath  set,  a  star  hath  risen, 
0  Geraldine  !  since  arms  of  thine 
Have  been  the  lovely  lady's  prison. 
0  Geraldine  !  one  hour  was  thine,  — 
Thou  'st  had  thy  will !    By  tarn  and  rill, 
The  night-birds  all  that  hour  were  still. 
But  now  they  are  jubilant  anew, 
From  cliff  and  tower,  tu-whoo  !  tu-whoo  ! 
Tu-whoo  !  tu-whoo  !  from  wood  and  fell ! 
And  see  !  the  Lady  Christabel 
Gatheis  herself  from  out  her  trance  ; 
Her  limbs  relax,  her  countenance 
Grows  sad  and  soft ;  the  smooth  thin  lids 
Close  o'er  her  eyes ;  and  tears  she  sheds,  — 
Large  tears  that  leave  the  lashes  bright ! 
And  oft  the  while  she  seems  to  smile 
As  infants  at  a  sudden  light ! 


114 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Yea,  she  doth  smile,  and  she  doth  weep, 
Like  a  youthful  heniiitess, 
]5eauteous  in  a  wilderness, 
Who,  praying  always,  prays  in  sleep. 
And,  if  she  move  unquietly, 
Perchance,  't  is  but  the  blood  so  free, 
Comes  back  and  tingles  in  her  feet. 
No  doubt  she  hath  a  vision  sweet. 
What  if  her  guardian  s])irit  'twere  ? 
What  if  she  knew  her  mother  near  ? 
r)ut  this  she  knows,  in  joys  and  woes, 
That  saints  will  aid  if  men  will  caU ; 
For  the  blue  sky  bends  over  all ! 


PART  II. 

"Each  matin-bell,"  the  Baron  saith, 
"Knells  us  back  to  a  world  of  death." 
These  words  Sir  Leoline  first  said. 
When  he  rose  and  found  his  lady  dead: 
These  words  Sir  Leoline  will  say 
Many  a  morn  to  his  dying  day ! 

And  hence  the  custom  and  law  began, 
That  still  at  dawn  the  .sacristan, 
Who  duly  pulls  the  heavy  bell, 
Five-and-forty  beads  nuist  tell 
Between  each  stroke,  — a  warning  knell, 
Which  not  a  soul  can  choose  but  hear 
From  Bratha  Head  to  Wyndermere. 

Saith  Bracythe  bard,  "So  let  it  knell! 
And  let  the  drowsy  sacristan 
Still  count  as  slowly  as  he  can ! 
There  is  no  lack  of  such,  I  ween, 
As  well  till  u]^  the  space  between. 
In  Langdale  Pike  and  Witch's  Lair, 
And  Duugeon-ghyll  so  foully  rent, 
With  ro]H's  of  rock  and  bells  of  air 
Three  sinful  sextons'  ghosts  are  pent, 
AVho  all  give  back,  one  after  t'  other, 
The  death-note  to  their  living  brother; 
And  oft,  too,  by  the  knell  offended, 
Just  as  their  one !  two  !  three  !  is  ended. 
The  devil  mocks  the  doleful  tale 
With  a  merry  peal  from  Borodale." 

The  air  is  still !  through  mist  and  cloud 
That  merry  peal  comes  ringing  loud ; 
And  Geraldine  shakes  oil'  her  dread, 
And  rises  lightly  from  the  bed ; 
Puts  on  licr  silken  vestments  white. 
And  tricks  her  hair  in  lovely  plight, 
And,  nothing  doubting  of  her  spell, 
Awakens  the  Lady  Christabel. 


"Sleep  you,  sweet  lady  Cliristabel? 
I  trust  that  you  have  rested  well." 

And  Christabel  awoke  and  .spied 
The  same  who  lay  down  by  her  side,  — 
0,  rather  say,  the  same  whom  she 
Raised  up  beneath  the  old  oak-tree ! 
Nay,  fairer  yet !  and  yet  more  fair ! 
For  she  belike  hath  drunken  deep 
Of  all  the  blessedness  of  sleep ! 
And  while  she  spake,  her  look,  her  air, 
Such  gentle  thankfulness  declare. 
That  (so  it  seemed)  her  girded  vests 
Grew  tight  beneath  her  heaving  breasts. 
"Sure  I  have  sinned!"  said  Christabel, 
"Now  Heaven  be  praised  if  all  be  well !" 
And  in  low  faltering  tones,  yet  svt'cet, 
Did  she  the  lofty  lady  greet, 
Witli  such  perplexity  of  mind 
As  dreams  too  lively  leave  behind. 

So  quickly  she  rose,  and  quickly  arrayed 
Her  maiden  limbs,  and  having  prayed 
That  He  who  on  the  cross  did  groan 
Might  wash  away  her  sins  unknown, 
She  forthwith  led  fair  Geraldine 
To  meet  her  sire,  Sir  Leoline. 

The  lovel}'-  maid  and  the  lady  tall 
Are  pacing  both  into  the  hall. 
And  pacing  on  through  page  and  groom, 
Enter  the  Baron's  presence-room. 

The  Baron  rose,  and  while  he  prest 
His  gentle  daughter  to  his  breast. 
With  cheerful  wonder  in  liis  eyi^s. 
The  Lady  Geraldine  espies. 
And  gave  such  welcome  to  the  same 
As  might  beseem  so  bright  a  dame ! 

But  when  he  heard  the  lady's  tale. 
And  when  she  told  her  father's  name. 
Why  waxed  Sir  Leoline  so  pale, 
Murnuiring  o'er  the  name  again, 
Lord  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Tryermaine  ? 

Alas !  they  had  been  friends  in  youth  ; 
But  whispering  tongues  can  poisoii  truth ; 
And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above. 
And  life  is  thoi-uy,  and  youth  is  vain. 
And  to  be  wioth  with  one  we  love 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 
And  thus  it  (dianced,  as  I  divine, 
AVith  Roland  and  Sir  Leoliiit!. 
Each  sjiake  woi'ds  of  high  disdain 
And  insult  to  his  heart's  best  brother: 
They  parted,  — ne'er  to  meet  again ! 


SAMUEL   TAYLOR   COLEKIDGE, 


115 


But  never  either  found  another 

To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  paining ; — 

They  stood  aloof,  the  sears  reuiaining, 

Like  cliffs  which  had  been  rent  asunder, 

A  dreary  sea  now  Hows  lietween  ; 

But  neither  heat  nor  frost  nor  thunder 

Shall  wholly  do  away,  1  ween, 

The  marks  of  that  which  onue  hath  been. 

Sir  Leoline  a  moment's  space 
Stood  gazing  on  the  damsel's  face. 
And  the  youthful  Lord  of  Tryemiaine 
Came  back  upon  his  heai-t  again. 

0,  then  the  Baron  forgot  his  age. 
His  noble  heart  swelled  high  with  rage ; 
He  swore  by  the  wounds  in  Jesu's  side 
He  would  proclaim  it  far  and  wide 
With  trump  and  solemn  heraldry. 
That  they  who  thus  had  wronged  the 

dame 
Were  base  as  spotted  infamy  ! 
"And  if  they  dare  deny  the  same, 
My  herald  shall  appoint  a  week, 
And  let  the  recreant  traitors  seek 
My  tourney  court,  —  that  there  and  then 
I  may  dislodge  their  reptile  souls 
From  the  bodies  and  forms  of  men  !" 
He  spake  :  his  eye  in  lightning  rolls  ! 
For  the  lady  was  ruthlessly  seized ;  and 

he  kenned 
In  the  beautiful  lady  the  child  of  his  friend ! 

And  now  the  tears  were  on  his  face, 
And  fondly  in  his  arms  he  took 
Fair  Geraldiiie,  who  met  the  embrace, 
Prolonging  it  with  joyous  look. 
Which  when  she  viewed,  a  vision  fell 
Upon  the  soul  of  Christabel, 
The  vision  of  fear,  the  touch  and  pain  ! 
She    shrunk    and    shuddered,   and    saw 

again  — 
(Ah,  woe  is  me !     Was  it  for  thee, 
Thou  gentle  maid  !  such  sights  to  see?) 
Again  she  saw  that  bosom  old, 
Again  she  felt  that  bosom  cold. 
And  drew  in  her  breath  with  a  hissing 

sound : 
Whereat  the  Knight  turned  wildlyround, 
And  nothing  saw  but  his  own  sweet  maid. 
With  ej'es  upraised,  as  one  that  prayed. 

The  touch,  the  sight,  had  passed  away, 
And  in  its  stead  that  vision  blest, 
Which  comforted  her  after-rest 
While  in  the  lady's  arms  she  lay. 
Had  put  a  rapture  in  her  breast. 


And  on  her  lips  and  o'er  her  eyes 
Spread  smiles  like  light ! 

With  new  sur]irise, 
"What  ails  then  my  beloved  child?" 
The  Baron  said.     His  daughter  mild 
Made  answer,  "All  will  yet  be  well !" 
I  ween,  she  had  no  power  to  tell 
Aught  else ;  so  mighty  was  the  spell. 

Yet  he  who  saw  this  Geraldine 
Had  deemed  her  sure  a  thing  divine. 
Such  sorrow  with  such  gi'acc  she  blended. 
As  if  she  feared  she  had  offended 
Sweet  Christabel,  that  gentle  maid  ! 
And  with  such  lowdy  tones  she  prayed. 
She  might  be  sent  without  delay 
Home  to  her  father's  mansion. 

"Nay! 
Nay,  by  my  soul !"  said  Leoline. 
"Ho!    Bracy,  the  bard,  the  charge  be 

thine ! 
Go  thou,  with  music  sweet  and  loud. 
And  take  twosteedswithtrappingsproud, 
And  take  the  youth  whom  thou  lov'st 

best 
To  bear  thy  harp,  and  learn  thy  song, 
And  clothe  you  both  in  solemn  vest, 
And  over  the  mountains  haste  along. 
Lest  wandering  folk,  that  are  abroad. 
Detain  j-ou  on  the  valley  road. 
And  when  he  has  crossed  the  Irthing  flood, 
My  merry  bard  1  he  hastes,  he  hastes 
U[)  Kuorren    Moor,  through  Halegarth 

Wood, 
And  reaches  soon  that  castle  good 
Which  stands  and  threatens  Scotland's 

wastes. 

"Bard  Bracy!  Bard  Bracy!  your  horses 

are  fleet. 
Ye  must  ride  up  the  hall,  your  music  so 

sweet. 
More  loud  than  your  horses'  echoing  feet ! 
And  lond  and  loud  to  Lord  Roland  call, 
Thy  daughter  is  safe  in  Langdale  hall ! 
Thy  beautiful  daughter  is  safe  and  free,  — 
Sir' Leoline  greets  thee  thus  through  me. 
He  bids  thee  come  without  delay 
With  all  thy  numerous  array. 
And  take  thy  lovely  daughter  home ; 
And  he  will  meet  thee  on  the  way 
With  all  his  numerous  array 
White  with  their  panting  palfreys'  foam : 
And  by  mine  honor !  I  will  say, 
That  I  repent  me  of  the  day 
AVhen  I  spake  words  of  fierce  disdain 
To  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Tryermaine ! — 


116 


SONGS   OF  THREE  CENTURIES. 


For  since  that  evil  lionr  liatli  flown, 
Many  a  sununcr'.s  sun  hath  shone ; 
Yet  ne'er  found  I  a  fiieml  again 
Like  Rohand  de  Vaux  of  Tryeimaine. " 

The  lady  fell,  and  clasped  his  knees, 
Her  face  upraised,  her  eyes  o'erflowing ; 
Ami  Bracy  replied,  with  faltering  voice, 
His  gi-acious  hail  on  all  bestowing!  — 
"Thy  words,  thou  sire  of  Christabel, 
Are  sweeter  than  my  harp  can  tell ; 
Yet  miglit  I  gain  a  boon  of  thee, 
Tliis  day  my  journey  should  not  be. 
So  strange  a  dream  liath  come  to  me, 
That  I  had  vowed  with  music  loud 
To  clear  yon  wood  from  thing  unblest, 
Warned  by  a  vision  in  my  rest ! 
For  in  my  sleep  I  saw  tliat  dove, 
That  gentle  bird,  whom  thou  dost  love. 
And  call'st  by  thy  own  daughter's  name  — 
Sir  Leoline!  I  saw  the  same 
Fluttering,  and  uttering  fearful  moan. 
Among  the  green  herbs  in  the  forest  alone. 
Which  when  I  saw  and  when  I  heard, 
I  wondered  what  might  ail  the  bird ; 
For  nothing  near  it  could  I  see, 
Save  thegrassandgreen  herbs  underneath 
the  old  tree. 

"And  in  my  dream  methought  I  went 
To  search  out  what  miglit  there  be  found  ; 
And  what  the  sweet  bird's  trouble  meant, 
That  thus  lay  fluttering  on  the  ground. 
I  went  and  |)eered,  and  could  descry 
No  cause  for  her  distressful  cry ; 
But  yet  for  her  dear  lady's  sake 
I  stooped,  methought,  tlic  dove  to  take, 
When  lo  !  I  saw  a  bright  green  snake 
Coiled  around  its  wings  and  neck, 
Green  as  the  herbs  on  which  it  couched. 
Close  by  the  dove's  its  liead  it  crouched ; 
And  with  tlie  dove  it  heaves  and  stirs. 
Swelling  its  neck  as  she  swelled  hers ! 
I  woke ;  it  was  the  midnight  hour. 
The  clock  was  echoing  in  the  tower ; 
But  though  my  slumber  was  gone  by, 
This  dream  it  would  not  pass  away,  — 
It  seems  to  live  ujion  my  eye  ! 
And  thence  I  vowed  this  selfsame  day, 
With  music  strong  and  saintly  song 
To  wander  through  the  forest  l)aie, 
Lest  aught  unholy  loiter  there." 

Thus  Bracy  said  :  the  Baron  the  while 
Half-listening  heard  liim  with  a  smile; 
Then  turned  to  Jiady  (Jeraldine, 
His  eyes  made  up  of  wonder  and  love, 


And  said  in  courtly  accents  fine, 
"Sweet  maid,  Lord  Roland's  beauteous 

dove. 
With   arms  more  strong  than  harp  or 

song. 
Thy  sire  and  I  will  crush  the  snake ! " 
He  kissed  her  forehead  as  he  spake, 
And  Geraldine,  in  maiden  wise. 
Casting  down  her  large  bright  eyes. 
With  blushing  cheek  and  courtesy  fine 
She  turned  lier  from  Sir  Leoline ; 
Softly  gathering  up  her  train, 
Tliat  o'er  her  right  arm  fell  again  ; 
And  folded  her  arms  across  her  chest, 
And  couched  her  head  upon  her  breast, 
And  looked  askance  at  Christabel  — 
Jesu  Maria,  shield  her  well ! 

A  snake's  small  eye  blinks  dull  and  sliy, 
And  the  lady's  eyes  they  shrunk  in  her 

head, 
Each  shrunk  uji  to  a  serpent's  eye, 
And  with  S(Mnewhat  of  malice,  and  more 

of  dread, 
At  Christabel  she  looked  askance!  — 
One  moment — ^and  the  sight  was  fled! 
But  Christabel,  in  dizzy  trance 
Stumbling  on  the  unsteady  ground. 
Shuddered  aloud,  with  a  hissing  sound ; 
And  Geraldine  again  turned  round, 
And  like  a  thing  that  sought  relief. 
Full  of  wonder  and  full  of  grief. 
She  rolled  her  large  bright  eyes  divine 
AVildly  on  Sir  Leoline. 

The  maid,  alas  !  her  thoughts  are  gone ; 
She  nothing  sees,  — no  sight  but  one ! 
The  maid,  <levoid  of  guile  and  sin, 
I  know  not  liow,  in  fearful  wise 
So  deeply  had  she  drunken  in 
Tliat  look,  those  slirunken  serpent  eyes. 
That  all  iK^r  features  were  resigned 
To  this  sole  image  in  her  mind, 
And  jiassively  did  imitate 
Tliat  look  of  dull  and  treacherous  hate ! 
And  tlius  she  stood  in  dizzy  trance, 
Still  ])icturing  that  look  askance 
With  forced  unconscious  sympathy 
Full  before  her  father's  view,  — 
As  far  as  sucli  a  look  could  be 
In  eyes  so  innocent  and  l)lue  ! 
And  when  Ihe  traiice  was  o'er,  the  maid 
Paused  awdiile,  and  inly  prayed  : 
Then  fixlling  at  the  Baron's  feet, 
"Piy  my  niothiir's  soul  do  I  entreat 
That  tliou  this  woman  send  away!" 
She  said  :  and  more  she  could  not  say : 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR   COLERIDGE. 


117 


For  what  she  knew  slie  could  not  tell, 
O'ermastered  by  the  mighty  spell. 

Why  is  thy  cheek  so  wan  and  wild, 
Sir  Leoline?     Thy  only  child 
Lies  at  thy  feet,  thy  joy,  thy  pride, 
So  fair,  so  innocent,  so  mild ; 
The  same  for  whom  thy  lady  died ! 
O,  by  the  pangs  of  her  dear  mother. 
Think  thou  no  evil  of  thy  child  ! 
For  her,  and  thee,  and  for  no  other. 
She  prayed  the  moment  ere  she  died, — 
Flayed  that  the  babe  for  whom  she  died 
Might  prove  her  dear  lord's  joy  and  pride  ! 
That  prayer  her  deadly  pangs  beguiled, 

Sir  Leoline ! 
And  wouldst  thou  wrong  thy  only  child. 

Her  child  and  thine  ? 

Within  the  Baron's  heart  and  brain. 
If  thoughts  like  these  had  any  share, 
They  only  swelled  his  rage  and  pain, 
And  did  but  work  confusion  there. 
His  heart  was  cleft  with  ])ain  and  rage. 
His  cheeks  they  q[uivered,  his  eyes  were 

wild. 
Hishonoi-ed  thus  in  his  old  age ; 
Dishonored  by  his  only  chihl. 
And  all  his  hospitality 
To  the  wronged  daughter  of  his  friend, 
By  more  than  woman's  jealous}' 
Brought  thus  to  a  disgi-aceful  end.  — 
He  rolled  his  eye  with  stern  regard 
Upon  the  gentle  minstnd  bard, 
And  said  in  tones  abrujit,  austere, 
"Why,  Bracy!  dost  thou  loiter  here? 
1  bade  thee  hence ! "     The  bard  obeyed ; 
And  tui-ning  from  his  own  sweet  maid, 
The  aged  knight,  Sir  Leoline, 
Led  forth  the  Lady  Geraldine ! 

THE   CONCLUSION   TO    PART   II. 

A  TJTTLE  child,  a  limber  elf, 
Singing,  dancing  to  itself, 
A  fairy  thing  with  red  round  cheeks, 
That  always  finds,  and  never  seeks, 
Makes  such  a  vision  to  the  sight 
As  fills  a  father's  eyes  with  light; 
And  pleasures  flow  in  so  thick  and  fast 
Upon  his  heart,  that  he  at  last 
Must  needs  express  his  love's  excess 
With  words  of  unmeant  bitterness. 
Perhaps  't  is  pretty  to  for<'e  together 
Thoughts  so  all  unlike  each  other; 
To  mutter  and  mock  a  broken  charm. 
To  dally  with  wrong  that  does  no  harm. 


Perhaps  't  is  tender  too  and  pretty 
At  each  wild  word  to  feel  within 
A  sweet  recoil  of  love  and  pity. 
And  what  if  in  a  world  of  sin 
(0  sorrow  and  shame,  should  this  be  true  !) 
Such  giddiness  of  heart  and  brain 
Comes  seldom  save  from  rage  and  pain, 
So  talks  as  it 's  most  used  to  do. 


EOBEPiT  SOUTHEY. 

[1774-1843.] 

STANZAS. 

My  days  among  the  dead  are  passed ; 

Around  me  I  behold, 
Where'er  these  casual  eyes  are  cast, 

The  mighty  minds  of  old ; 
My  never-failing  friends  are  they, 
Witli  whom  I  converse  day  by  ihiy. 

With  them  I  take  delight  in  weal, 

And  seek  relief  in  woe  ; 
And  while  I  understand  and  feel 

How  much  to  them  I  owe. 
My  cheeks  have  often  been  bedewed 
With  tears  of  thoughtful  gratitude. 

My  thoughts  are  with  the  dead ;  with  them 

I  live  in  long-past  years ; 
Their  virtues  love,  their  faults  condemn. 

Partake  their  hopes  and  fears, 
And  from  their  lessons  seek  and  find 
Instruction  with  an  humble  mind. 

My  hopes  are  with  the  dead ;  anon 
My  place  with  them  will  be, 

And  I  with  them  shall  travel  on 
Through  all  futurity : 

Yet  leaving  here  a  name,  I  trust, 

That  will  not  perish  in  the  dust. 


THE  INCHCAPE  ROCK. 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea,  — 
The  ship  was  as  still  as  she  could  be  ; 
Her  sails  from  heaven  received  no  motion, 
Her  keel  was  steady  in  the  ocean. 

Without  either  sign  or  sound  of  their  shock 
The  waves  flowed  over  the  luchcape  Kock ; 


118 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


So  little  they  rose,  so  little  they  fell, 
Tliey  did  not  move  the  Inchcape  Bfll. 

The  good  old  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok 
Had  placed  that  bell  ou  the   luchcape 

Rock ; 
Oil  a  buoy  in  the  storm  it  floated  and 

swung, 
And  over  the  waves  its  warning  rung. 

When  the  Rock  was  hid  by  the  surges' 

swell, 
Tlie  mariners  heard  the  warning  bell ; 
And  then  they  knew  the  peiilous  Rock, 
And  blessed  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok. 

The  sun  in  heaven  was  shining  gay, 
All  things  were  joyful  on  that  day  ; 
The  sea-birds  screamed  as  they  wheeled 

around. 
And  there  was  joyance  in  their  sound. 

The  buoy  of  the  Inchcape  Bell  was  seen 
A  darker  speck  on  the  ocean  green  ; 
Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  walked  his  deck. 
And  he  fixed  his  eye  on  the  darker  speck. 

He  felt  the  cheering  power  of  spring, 
It  made  him  whistle,  it  made  him  sing; 
His  heart  was  mirthful  to  excess, 
But  the  Rover's  mirth  was  wickedness. 

His  eye  was  on  the  Inchcape  float ; 
Quoth  he,  "My  men,  put  out  the  l)oat, 
And  row  mo  to  the  Inchcape  Rock, 
And  I'll  plague  the  priest  of  Aberbro- 
thok." 

The  boat  is  lowered,  the  boatmen  row, 
And  to  the  Inchcape  Rock  they  go ; 
Sir  Ralph  bent  over  from  the  boat. 
And  he  cut  the  bell  from  the  Inchcape 
float. 

Hown  sank  thebell,  with  agurglingsound, 
The  bubbles  rose  and  burst  around  ; 
Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "The  next  who  conies 

to  the  Rock 
Won't  bless  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok." 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  sailed  away. 
He  scoured  the  seas  for  many  a  day; 
Andnow,  grown  rich  with  plundered  store. 
He  steers  his  course  for  Scotland's  shore. 

So  thick  a  haze  o'erspreads  the  sky 
They  cannot  see  the  sun  on  high ; 
Tlie  wind  hath  blown  a  gab;  all  day, 
At  evening  it  hath  died  away. 


On  the  deck  the  Rover  takes  his  stand, 
So  dark  it  is  they  see  no  haul. 
Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "It  will  be  lighter  soon. 
For  there  is  the  dawn  of  the  rising  moon." 

"Canst   hear,"  said  one,  "the  breakers 

roar  ? 
Formethinkswe  should  be  neartheshore ; 
Now  where  we  are  I  cannot  tell. 
But  I  wish  I  couldhearthe  Inchcape  Bell." 

They  hear  no  sound,  the  swell  is  strong; 
Tliouglx  the  wind  hath  fallen,  they  drift 

along. 
Till  the  vessel  strikes  with  a  shivering 

shock : 
Cried  they,  "It  is  the  Inchcape  Rock !" 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  tore  his  hair. 
He  cursed  himself  in  his  despair; 
The  waves  rush  in  on  every  side. 
The  ship  is  sinking  beneath  the  tide. 

But  even  in  his  dying  fear 
One  dreadful  sound  could  the  Rover  hear, 
A  sound  as  if  with  the  Inchcape  Bell 
The  fiends  below  were  ringing  his  knell. 


BROUGH  BELLS. 

One  day  to  Helbeck  I  had  strolled, 

Among  the  Crossfell  Hills, 
And,  resting  in  the  rocky  grove. 

Sat  listening  to  the  rills,  — 

The  while  to  their  sweet  undersong 
The  birds  sang  blithe  around. 

And  the  soft  west-wind  awoke  the  wood 
To  an  intermitting  sound. 

Louder  or  fainter,  as  it  rose 

Or  died  away,  was  borne 
The  harmony  of  merry  bells 

From  Brough,  that  pleasant  morn. 

"Why  are  the  merry  bells  of  Brough, 

My  friend,  so  fcnv?"  said  I  ; 
"Tliey  disappoint  the  expectant  car, 

Wliich  they  should  gratify. 

"One,  two,  three,  four;  one,  two,  threS, 
four ; 

'T  is  still  one,  two,  three,  four: 
Mellow  and  silvery  are  the  tones; 

But  I  wish  the  bells  were  more!" 


ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 


119 


"What !  art  thou  critical  ?"  quoth  he ; 

"Eschew  that  heart's  disease 
Tliat  seeketh  for  disiileasm-e  where 

The  intent  hatli  been  to  please. 

"By  those  four  bells  there  hangs  a  tale, 

Which  being  told,  I  guess, 
Will  make  thee  hear  their  scanty  peal 

With  proper  thankfulness. 

"Not  by  the  Cliftbrds  were  they  given, 

Nor  by  the  Tuftons'  line  ; 
Thou  hearest  in  that  peal  the  crune 

Of  old  John  Brunskill's  kine. 

"On  Stanemore's  side,  one  summer  eve, 

John  Brunskill  sat  to  see 
His  herds  in  yonder  Borrodale 

Come  winding  up  the  lea. 

"Behind  them,  on  the  lowland's  verge, 

In  the  evening  light  serene, 
Brough's  silent  tower,  then  newly  built 

By  Blenkinsop,  was  seen, 

"Slowly  they  came  in  long  array, 

With  loitering  pace  at  will ; 
At  times  a  low  from  them  was  heard. 

Far  off,  for  all  was  still. 

"The  hills  returned  that  lonely  sound 

ITpon  the  tranquil  air: 
Tlu'  only  sound  it  was  which  then 

Awoke  the  echoes  there. 

"  'Thou  hear'st  that  lordly  bull  of  mine. 
Neighbor, '  quoth  Brunskill  then  : 

'How  loudly  to  the  hills  he  crunes, 
That  crune  to  him  again  ! 

"  'Think'stthou  if  yon  whole  herd  at  once 

Their  voices  should  combine. 
Were  they  at  Brough,  that  we  might  not 
Hear  plainly  from  this  upland  spot 
That  cruning  of  the  kine?' 

"'That  were  a  crune,  indeed,'  replied 
His  comrade,  'which,  I  ween. 

Might  at  the  Spital  well  be  heard, 
And  in  all  dales  between. 

"'Fp  Mallerstang  to  Eden's  springs. 
The  eastern  wind  iipon  its  wings 

Tlie  mighty  voice  would  bear ; 
And  Appleby  would  h(>ar  the  sound, 

Mefhinks,  when  skies  are  fair.' 


'"Then  shall  the  herd,'  John  Brunskill 
cried, 

'From  yon  dumb  stee])le  crune; 
And  thou  and  I,  on  this  hillside. 

Will  listen  to  their  tune. 

' ' '  So,  while  the  merry  Bells  of  Brough 

For  many  an  age  ring  on, 
John  Brunskill  will  remembered  be. 

When  he  is  dead  and  gone, 

"  'As  one  who,  in  his  latter  years, 

Contented  with  enough, 
Gave  freely  what  he  well  could  sjiare 

To  buy  the  Bells  of  Brough. ' 

"Thus  it  hath  proved:   three  hundred 
years 

Since  then  have  passed  away. 
And  Brunskill's  is  a  living  name 

Among  us  to  this  day." 

"More  pleasure,"  I  replied,  "shall  I 
From  this  time  forth  partake. 

When  I  remember  Helbeck  woods, 
For  old  John  Brunskill's  sake. 

"He  knew  how  wholesome  it  would  be, 
Among  these  wild,  wide  fells 

And  upland  vales,  to  catch,  at  times. 
The  sound  of  Christian  bells  ; — 

"What  feelings  and  what  impulses 

Their  cadence  might  convey 
To  herdsman  or  to  sliepherd-boy, 
Whiling  in  indolent  emjiloy 

The  solitary  day;  — 

"That,  when  his  brethren  were  convened 

To  meet  for  social  prayer. 
He  too,  admonished  by  the  call, 

In  spirit  might  be  there;  — 

"Or  when  a  glad  thanksgiving  sound, 

Upon  the  winds  of  heaven. 
Was  sent  to  speak  a  nation's  joy, 

For  some  great  blessing  given,  — 

"For  victory  by  sea  or  land. 

And  happy  peace  at  length  ; 
Peace  by  his  country's  valor  won. 

And  stablished  by  her  strength; — 

"When  such  exultant  peals  were  borne 

Upon  the  mountain  air, 
The  sound  should  stir  his  blood,  and  give 

An  English  impulse  there." 


120 


SONGS   OF  THREE  CENTURIES. 


Such  thonffhts  were  in  the  old  man's 
mind, 

When  he  that  eve  looked  down 
From  Staneniore's  side  on  Ijonodale, 

And  on  the  distant  town. 

And  had  I  store  of  wealth,  methinks, 

Another  herd  of  kine, 
John  Brun  skill,  I  would  freely  give, 

That  they  might  crune  with  thmc. 


CHARLES  LAMB. 
[1775-1834.] 

THE  HOUSEKEEPER. 

The  frugal  snail,  with  forecast  of  repose, 

Carries  his  house  with  him  where'er  he 
goes; 

Teeps  out,  —and  if  there  comes  a  shower 
of  rain, 

lletr.^ats  to  his  small  domicile  again.  ^ 

Touch  but  a  tip  of  him,  a  horn,— 'tis 
well,  — 

He  curls  up  in  his  sanctuary  shell. 

He  's  his  own  landlord,  his  own  tenant ; 
stay 

Long  as  he  will,  he  dreads  no  Quarter  Day. 

Hiinself  he  hoards  and  lodges ;  both  in- 
vites 

And  feasts  himself;  sleeps  with  himself 
o'  nights. 

He  spares  the  upholsterer  trouble  to  pro- 
cure 

Cliattels ;  himself  is  his  own  furniture, 

And  his  sole  riches.  Wheresoe'er  he 
roam,  — 

Knock  when  you  will,  —he 's  sure  to  be 
at  home. 

THE  OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES. 

I  HAVE  had  playmates,  I  have  had  com- 
panions, 

In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful 
school-days ; 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  ca- 
rousing. 

Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bos- 
om cronies ; 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


I  loved  a  love  once,  fairest  among  women ! 
Closed  are  her  doors  on  me  now,  1  must 

not  see  her,  — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no 

man: 
Like  an  ingrate,  I  left  my  friend  abruptly ; 
Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar 

faces. 

Ghost -like  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of 

my  childhood, 
Earth  seemed  a  desert  I  was  bound  to 

traverse. 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a 

brotlier, 
Why  wert  not  thou  born  in  my  father's 

dwelling  ? 
So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces, — 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they 

have  left  me. 
And  some  are  taken  from  me;  all  are 

departed ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


HESTER. 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die, 
Their  place  ye  may  not  well  supply, 
Though  ye  among  a  thousand  try. 
With  vain  endeavor. 

A  month  or  more  hath  she  been  dead. 
Yet  cannot  I  by  force  be  led 
To  think  upon  the  wormy  bed 
And  her  together. 

A  springy  motion  in  her  gait, 
A  rising  step,  did  indicate 
Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate, 
That  flushed  her  spirit. 

I  know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I  shall  it  call ;— if  't  was  not  pride. 
It  was  a  joy  to  that  allied, 
She  did  inherit. 

Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  nile, 
Which  doth  the  human  feeling  cool ; 
But  she  was  trained  in  nature's  school, 
Nature  had  blessed  her. 

A  waking  eye,  a  prying  mind,  _ 
I  A  heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind; 


JAMES  HOGG, 


121 


A  hawk's  keen  sight  ye  cannot  blind, 
Ye  could  not  Hester. 

My  sprightly  neighbor,  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore, 
Shall  we  not  meet,  as  heretofore, 

Some  summer  morning, 

When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 
Hath  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day, 
A  bliss  that  would  not  go  away, 
A  sweet  forewarning  ? 


JAMES  HOGG. 
[1772-1835.] 

WHEN  MAGGY  GANGS  AWAY. 

O,  AVHAT  will  a'  the  lads  do 
When  Maggy  gangs  away? 
(),  what  will  a'  the  lads  do 
When  Maggy  gangs  away? 
There  's  no  a"  heart  in  a'  the  glen 
That  disna  dread  the  day ;  — 
0,  what  will  a'  the  lads  do 
When  Maggy  gangs  away  ? 

Young  Jock  has  ta'en  the  hill  for 't, 

A  waefu'  wight  is  he  ; 

I'oor  Harry  's  ta'en  the  bed  for 't, 

An'  laid  him  down  to  dee ; 

And  Sandy 's  gane  unto  the  kirk, 

And  learnin  fast  to  pray;  — 

0,  what  will  a'  the  lads  do 

When  Maggy  gangs  away  ? 

The  young  laird  o'  the  Lang  Shaw 
Has  drunk  her  health  in  wine ; 
The  priest  has  said — in  confidence — 
The  lassie  was  divine  ; 
And  that  is  mair  in  maiden's  praise 
Than  ony  priest  should  say ; — 
But  0,  what  will  the  lads  do 
When  Maggy  gangs  away  ? 

The  wailing  in  our  green  glen 

That  day  will  quaver  high, 

'T  will  draw  the  redbreast  frae  the  wood, 

The  laverock  frae  the  sky ; 

The  fairies  frae  their  beds  o'  dew 

Will  rise  and  join  the  lay,  — 

An'  hey  !  what  a  day  't  will  be 

When  Maggy  gangs  away  ? 


THE  RAPTTJRE  OF  KILMENY. 

BoxNY  Kilmeny  gaed  up  the  glen ; 
But  it  wasna  to  meet  Duneira's  men, 
Nor  the  rosy  monk  of  the  isle  to  see. 
For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 
It  was  only  to  hear  the  yorlin  sing. 
And  pu'  the  cress-Hower  round  the  spring ; 
The  scarlet  hip  and  the  hindberrye, 
And  the  nut  that  hangs  frae  the  hazel- 
tree  ; 
For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 
Butlangmayher  minny  look  o'er  the  wa'. 
And  lang  may  she  seek  1'  the  green-wood 

shaw ; 
Lang  the  laird  of  Duneira  blame. 
And  lang,  lang  greet,  or  Kilmeny  come 
hame ! 

When  many  a  day  had  come  and  fled. 
When  grief  grew  calm,  and  hope  was  dead. 
When  mass  for  Kilmeny's  soul  had  been 

sung. 
When  the  bedesman  had  prayed,  and  the 

dead-bell  rung, 
Late,  late  in  a  gloamin'  when  all  was 

still, 
When  the  fringe  was  red  on  the  westliu' 

hill, 
The  wood  was  sere,  the  moon  i'  the  wane. 
The  reek  o'  the  cot  hung  over  the  plain. 
Like  a  little  wee  cloud  in  the  world  its 

lane; 
When  the  ingle  lowed  with  an  eiry  Icme, 
Late,  late  in  the  gloamin'  Kilmeny  came 

hame ! 

"Kilmeny,  Kilmeny,  where    have    you 

been  ? 
Lang  hae  we  sought  baith  holt  and  den, 
By  linn,  by  ford,  by  greenwood  tree. 
Yet  you  are  halesome  and  fair  to  see. 
Where  gat  you  that  joup  o'  tlie  lily  sheen  ? 
That  bonny  snood  o'  the  birk  sae  green  ? 
And  these  roses,  the  fairest  that  ever  were 

seen? 
Kilmeny,   Kilmeny,    where    have    you 

been?" 

Kilmeny  looked  up  M'ith  a  lovely  grace, 
But  nae  smile  was  seen  on  Kilmeny's  face  ; 
As  still  was  her  look,  and   as  still  was 

her  e'e. 
As  the  stillness  that  lay  on  the  emerant 

lea. 
Or  the  mist  that  sleeps  on  a  waveless 

sea. 


122 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


For  Kilmeny  had  been  she  knew  not 

where, 
And  Kilmeny  had  seen  what  she  could 

not  declai'e. 
Kilmeny  had  been  where  the  cock  never 

crew, 
Where  the  rain  never  fell,  and  the  wind 

never  blew ; 
But  it  seemed  as  the  harp  of  the  sky  had 

rung, 
And  the  airs  of  heaven  played  round  her 

tongue. 
When  she  spake  of  the  lovely  forms  she 

had  seen, 
And  a  land  where  sin  had  never  been, — 
A  hind  of  love  and  a  land  of  light, 
Withouten  sun  or  moon  or  night ; 
Where  the  river  swa'd  a  living  stream, 
And  the  light  a  pure  celestial  beam ; 
The  land  of  vision  it  would  sesem, 
A  still,  an  everlasting  dream. 
In  yon  gi-een-wood  there  is  a  walk, 
And  in  that  walk  thei-e  is  a  wene, 
And  in  that  wene  there  is  a  maike, 
That  neither  has  flesh,  blood,  nor  bane ; 
And  down  in  yon  green-wood  he  walks 

his  lane. 

In  that  green  wene  Kilmeny  lay, 
Her  bosom  hap]ied  wi'  the  tlowei'ets  gay ; 
But  the  air  was  soft,  and  the  silence  deep. 
And  bonny  Kilmeny  fell  sound  asleep ; 
She  kcnd  nae  mair,  nor  oi)ened  her  e'e, 
Tillwaki'dbythehymnsof  a  farcountrye. 
She  awaked  on  a  couch  of  the  silk  sae 

slim. 
All  striped  wi'  the  bars  of  the  rainbow's 

rim ; 
And  lovely  beings  round  were  rife, 
Who  erst  had  travelled  mortal  life ; 
And  aye  they  smiled,  and  'gan  to  speer, 
•'What  spirit  has  brought  tliis   mortal 

here?" 
They  clasped  her  waist  and  her  hands 

sae  fair. 
They  kissed  her  cheek,  and  they  kerned 

her  hair. 
And  round  came  many  a  blooming  fere. 
Saying,  "  Bonny  Kilmeny,  ye 're  welcome 

here ! 

"0,  would  the  fairest  of  mortal  kind 
Aye  keep  the  holy  truths  in  mind. 
That  kindred  spirits  their  motions  see. 
Who  watch  their  ways  witli  anxious  e'e, 
And  grieve  for  the  guilt  of  humanitye ! 
O,  sweet  to  Heaven  the  maiden's  prayer, 


And  the  sigli  that  heaves  a  bosom  sae  fair ! 
And  dear  to  Heaven  the  words  of  truth, 
And  the  praise   of  virtue  frae  beauty's 

mouth ! 
And  dear  to  the  viewless  forms  of  air. 
The  minds  that  kythe  as  the  body  fair ! 
0  bonny  Kilmeny  !  free  frae  stain. 
If  ever  you  seek  the  world  again,  — 
That  world  of  sin,  of  sorrow,  and  fear,  — 
O,  tell  of  the  joys  that  are  waiting  here. 
And  tell  of  the  signs  you  shall  shortly  see ; 
Of  the  times  that  are  now,  and  the  times 

that  shall  be." 

They  lifted  Kilmeny,  they  led  her  away. 
And  she  walked  in  the  light  of  a  sunless 

day : 
The  sky  was  a  dome  of  crystal  bright. 
The  fountain  of  vision,  and  fountain  of 

light; 
The  emerald  fields  were  of  dazzling  glow. 
And  the  flowers  of  everlasting  blow. 
Then  deep  in  the  stream  her  body  they 

laid. 
That  her  youth  and  beauty  never  might 

fade ; 
And  they  smiled  on  heaven,  when  they 

saw  her  lie 
In  the  stream  of  life  that  wandered  by. 
And  she  heard  a  song,  she  heard  it  sung. 
She  kend  not  where  ;  but  sae  sweetly  it 

rung. 
It  fell  on  her  ear  like  a  dream  of  the 

morn : 
"0,  blest  be  the  day  Kilmeny  wiis  bom  ! 
Now  shall  the  land  of  the  spirits  see. 
Now  shall  it  ken  what  a  woman  may  be  ! 
The  sun  that  shin  es  on  the  world  sae  bright, 
A  borrowed  gleid  of  the  fountain  of  light ; 
And  the  moon  that  sleeks  the  sky  sae  dun. 
Like  a  gouden  bow,  or  a  beamless  sun. 
Shall  wear  away,  and  be  seen  nae  mair, 
And  the  angels  shall  miss  them  travelling 

the  air. 
But  lang,  lang  after  baith  night  and  day, 
When  tlie  sun  and  the  world  have  elyed 

away ; 
When  the  sinner  has  gane  to  his  waesome 

doom, 
Kilmeny  shall  smile  in  eternal  bloom  !" 

Then  Kilmeny  bogged  again  to  see 

The  fiiends  she  had  left  in  her  own  coun- 

trye. 
To  tell  of  the  place  where  she  had  been. 
And  the  glories  that  lay  in  the  land  un- 
seen; 


THOMAS   MOORE. 


123 


To  warn  tlie  living  maidens  fair, 
The  loved  of  Heaven,  the  spirits'  care, 
That  all  whose  minds  unmeled  remain 
Shall  bloom  in  beauty  when  time  is  gane. 

"With  distant  music,  soft  and  deep. 
They  lulled  Kilmeny  sound  asleep ; 
And  when  she  awakened,  she  lay  her  lane, 
All  happed  with  flowers  in  the  green-wood 

wene. 
"When  seven  long  years  were  come  and 

fled; 
"Wlien  grief  wa,s  calm,  and  hope  was  dead ; 
AVlien  scarce  was  remembered  Kilmeny's 

name, 
Late,  late  in  a  gloamln'   Kilmeny  came 

hame ! 
And  0,  her  beauty  was  fair  to  see. 
But  still  and  steadfast  was  her  e'e ! 
Such  beauty  bard  may  never  declare. 
For  there  was  no  pride  nor  passion  there ; 
And  the  soft  desire  of  maiden's  een 
In  that  mild  face  could  never  be  seen. 
Her  seymar  was  the  lily  flower. 
And  her  cheek  the  moss-rose  in  the  shower, 
And  her  voice  like  the  distant  melodye, 
That  floats  along  the  twilight  sea. 
But  she  loved  to  raike  the  hinely  glen, 
And    keeped    afar    frae    the   haunts  of 

men ; 
Her  holy  liymns  unheard  to  sing, 
To  suck  the  flowers,  and  drink  the  spring. 
But  wherever  her  peaceful  form  appeared, 
The  wild  beasts  of  the  hill  were  cheered  ; 
Tlie  wolf  played  blithely  round  the  field. 
The  lordly  bison  lowed  and  kneeled ; 
The  dun  deer  wooed  with  manner  bland, 
And  cowered  aneath  her  lily  hand. 
And  when  at  even  the  woodlands  rung, 
AVhen  hymns  of  other  worlds  she  .sung 
In  ecstasy  of  sweet  devotion, 
O,  then  the  glen  was  all  in  motion ! 
The  wild  beasts  of  the  forest  came, 
Broke  from  their  bughts  and  faulds  the 

tame. 
And  goved  around,  charmed  and  amazed  ; 
Even  the  dull  cattle  crooned  and  gazed, 
And  murmured,  and  looked  with  anxious 

pain 
For  something  the  mystery  to  explain. 
The  buzzard  came  with  the  throstle-cock  ; 
The  corby  left  her  houf  in  the  rock  ; 
The  blackbird  alang  wi'  the  eagle  flew ; 
The  hind  came  tripping  o'er  the  dew ; 
The  wolf  and  the  kid  their  raike  began. 
And   the   tod,  and   the   lamb,  and    the 

leveret  ran ; 


The  hawk  and  the  hern  attour  them  hung, 
And  the  merl  and  the  mavis  forhooyed 

their  young ; 
And  all  in  a  peaceful  ring  were  hurled ;  — 
It  was  like  an  eve  in  a  sinless  world ! 

When  a  month  and  a  day  had  come  and 

gane, 
Kilmeny  sought  the  green-wood  wene ; 
There  laid  her  down  on  the  leaves  sae 

green, 
And  Kilmeny  on  earth  was  never  mair 

seen. 
But   0,   the  words    that  fell  from   her 

mouth 
"Were  words  of  wonder,   and  words  of 

truth ! 
But  all  the  land  were  in  fear  and  dread, 
For  they  kendna  whether  she  was  living 

or  dead. 
It  wasna  her  hame,  and  she  couldna  re- 
main ; 
She  left  this  world  of  sorrow  and  pain, 
And  returned  to  the  Land  of  Thought 

again. 


THOMAS  MOOEE. 
[1779-1852.1 

FLY  TO  THE  DESERT. 

Fly  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me, 
Our  Arab  tents  are  rude  for  thee ; 
But,  O,  the  choice  what  heart  can  doubt, 
Of  tents  with  love,  or  thrones  without  ? 

Our  rocks  are  rough,  but  smiling  there 
The  acacia  waves  her  yellow  hair, 
Lonely  and  sweet,  nor  loved  the  less 
For  flowering  in  a  wilderness. 

Our  sands  are  bare,  but  down  their  slope 
The  silvery-footed  antelope 
As  gracefully  and  gayly  springs 
As  o'er  the  marble  courts  of  kings. 

Then  come,  — thy  Arab  maid  will  be 
The  loved  and  lone  acacia-tree. 
The  antelope,  whose  feet  shall  bless 
With  their  light  sound  thy  loveliness. 

0,  there  are  looks  and  tones  that  dart 
An  instant  sunshine  througli  the  heart, 
As  if  the  soul  that  minute  caught 
Some  treasure  it  through  life  had  sought ; 


124 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


As  if  the  very  lips  and  P3'es 
rretlostiiied  to  liave  all  our  sighs, 
And  never  be  forgot  again. 
Sparkled  and  spoke  before  us  then ! 

So  came  thy  every  glance  and  tone, 
When   lirst   on  rue  they  breathed  and 

shone ; 
New  as  if  brought  from  other  spheres, 
Yet  welcome  as  if  loved  for  years. 


THE  MID  H0T7R  OF  NIGHT. 

At  the  mid  hour  of  night,  when  stars 

are  weeping,  I  fly 
To   the  lone   vale  we   loved,  when  life 

shone  warm  in  thine  eye  ; 
And  I  think  oft,  if  spirits  can  steal  from 

the  regions  of  air, 
To  revisit  past  scenes  of  delight,  thou 

wilt  come  to  me  there, 
And  tell  me  our  love  is  remembered  even 

in  the  sky ! 

Then  I  sing  the  wild  song  't  was   once 

such  pleasure  to  hear. 
When  our  voices,  commingling,  breathed 

like  one  on  the  ear ; 
And,  as  Echo  far  off  through  the  vale 

my  sad  orison  rolls, 
I   think,  0  my  love  !  't  is  thy  voice, 

from  the  Kingdom  of  Souls, 
Faintly  answering   still   the  notes  that 

once  were  so  dear. 


THE  VALE  OF  AVOCA. 

TnEKE  is  not  in  this  wide  world  a  valley 

so  sweet 
As  that  vale,  in  whose  bosom  the  bright 

waters  meet ; 
0,  the  last  ray  of  feeling  and  life  must 

depart 
Ere  the  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade 

from  my  heart ! 

Yet  it  was  not  that  Nature  had  shed  o'er 

the  scene 
Her  purest  of  crystal  and  brightest  of 

green ; 
'T  was  not  the  soft  magic  of  streamlet  or 

hill,  — 
0,  no !  it  was  something  more  exquisite 

still. 


'T  was  that  friends,  the  beloved  of  my 
bosom,  were  near. 

Who  made  every  dear  scene  of  enchant- 
ment more  dear, 

Aud  who  felt  how  the  best  charms  of 
nature  improve, 

When  we  see  them  reflected  from  looks 
that  we  love. 

Sweet  Vale  of  Avoca  !  how  calm  could 
I  rest 

In  thy  bosom  of  shade,  with  the  friends 
I  love  best ; 

Where  the  storms  that  we  feel  in  this 
cold  world  should  cease, 

And  our  hearts,  like  thy  waters,  be  min- 
gled in  peace. 


O  THOU    WHO  DRY'ST  THE    MOURN- 
ER'S TEAR. 

0  TiiOTJ  who  dry'st  the  mourner's  tear  I 

How  dark  this  world  would  be. 
If,  when  deceived  and  wounded  here, 

We  could  not  fly  to  thee. 
The  friends  who  in  our  sunshine  live. 

When  winter  comes,  are  flown ; 
And  he  who  has  but  tears  to  give 

ilust  wee])  those  tears  alone. 
But  thou  wilt  heal  that  broken  heart 

Which,  like  the  plants  that  throw 
Their  fragrance  from  the  wounded  part, 

Breathes  sweetness  out  of  woe. 

When  joy  no  longer  soothes  or  cheers, 

And  e'en  the  hope  that  threw 
A  moment's  sparkle  o'er  our  tears 

Is  dimmed  and  vanished  too, 
0,  who  would  bear  life's  stormy  doom. 

Did  not  thy  wing  of  love 
Come,  brightly  wafting  through  thegloom 

Our  peace-branch  from  above  ? 
Then   sorrow,   touched  by   thee,    grows 
bright 

With  more  than  rapture's  ray ; 
As  darkness  shows  us  worlds  of  light 

We  never  saw  by  day  ! 


THOU  ART,   O  GOD  I 

Thou  art,  0  God  !  the  life  and  light 
Of  all  this  wondrous  world  we  see  ; 

Its  glow  by  day,  its  smile  liy  night, 
Are  but  reflections  caught  from  thee, 


GEOEGE   GORDON   (LOED   BYEON). 


125 


"Where'er  we  tiim,  thy  glories  shine, 
Aud  all  things  fair  and  bright  are  thine. 

When  day,  with  farewell  beam,  delays 
Among  the  opening  clouds  of  even, 

And  we  can  almost  think  we  gaze 

Through  golden  vistas  into  heaven,  — 

Those  hues  that  make  the  sun's  decline 

So  soft,  so  radiant.  Lord !  are  thine. 

When  night,  with  wings  of  starry  gloom, 
O'ershadows  all  the  earth  and  skies, 

Like  some  dark,  beauteous  bird,  whose 
plume 
Is  si)arkling  with  unnumbered  eyes,  — 

That  sacred  gloom,  those  tires  divine. 

So  grand,  so  countless.  Lord !  are  thine. 

When  youthful  springaroundusbreathes, 
Thy  spirit  warms  her  fragrant  sigh  ; 

And  every  flower  the  summer  wreathes 
Is  born  beneath  that  kindling  eye. 

Where'er  we  turn,  thy  glories  shine, 

Aud  all  things  fair  and  bright  are  Tliine. 


(LOED 


GEOEGE    GOEDON 
BYEON). 

[1788-1824.] 

SHE  WALKS  IN  BEATTTT. 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies. 

And  all  that 's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meets  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes, 

Thus  mellowed  to  that  tender  light 
Which  Heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less. 
Had  half  impaired  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress. 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face. 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling- 
place. 

And  on  that  cheek  and  o'er  that  brow. 
So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 

The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow. 
But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 

A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 
A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent ! 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  SENNACHERIB. 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf 

on  the  fold. 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple 

and  gold ; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like 

stars  on  the  sea. 
When   the   blue  wave   rolls  nightly  on 

deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  sum- 
mer is  green, 

That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset 
were  seen ; 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  au- 
tumn hath  blown. 

That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  withered 
and  strown. 


For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings 

on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he 

passed ; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  waxed  deadly 

and  chill. 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  aud 

forever  grew  still ! 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostrils 
all  wide. 

But  through  them  there  rolled  not  the 
breath  of  his  pride  : 

And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white 
on  the  turf. 

And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beat- 
ing surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and 
pale, 

With  the  dew  on  his  brow  and  the  rust 
on  his  mail ; 

And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  ban- 
ners alone. 

The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  un- 
blown. 


And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in 

their  wail. 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of 

Baal ; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote 

by  the  sword. 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of 

the  Lord ! 


126 


SONGS  OF  THREE  CENTURIES. 


THE  LAKE  OF  GENEVA. 

Clear,  placid  Lenian  !  thy  contrasted 

lake, 
With  the  wild  world  I  dwelt  in,  is  a 

thing 
"Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to 

forsake 
Earth's   troubled  waters  for  a   purer 

spring. 
This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction;  once  I 

loved 
Torn  ocean's  roar,  hut  thy  soft  mur- 
muring 
Sounds  sweet   as    if  a  sister's  voice 

reproved. 
That   I  with  stern  delights  should  e'er 

have  been  so  moved. 

It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk, 

yet  clear, 
Mellowed  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly 

seen, 
Save  darkened  Jura,  whose  cajjt heights 

appear 
Precipitously  steep ;  and  drawing  near, 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from 

the  shore. 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood ; 

on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended 

oar, 
Or  chirps  the  gi'asshopper  one  good-night 

carol  more : 

He  is  an  evening  reveller,  who  makes 
His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  lill; 
At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the 

brakes 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is 

still. 
There  seems  a  floating  whisiier  on  the 

hill. 
But  that  is  fancy,  for  the  starlight  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil, 
"Weeping  tliemselves   away,  till  they 

infuse 
Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  spirit  of 

her  hues. 


MONT  BLANC. 

Mont  Bi.anc  is  the  monarch  of  moun- 
tains ; 
They  crowned  him  long  ago 


On  a  throne  of  rocks,  in  a  robe  of  clouds. 

With  a  diadem  of  snow. 
Around  his  waist  are  forests  braced. 

The  avalanche  in  his  hand ; 
But  ere  it  fall,  that  thundering  ball 

Must  pause  for  my  command. 

The  glacier's  cold  and  restless  mass 

Moves  onward  day  by  day; 
But  I  am  he  who  bids  it  pass, 

Or  with  its  ice  delay. 
I  am  the  spirit  of  the  place, 

Could  make  the  mountain  bow 
And  quiver  to  his  caverned  liase,  — 

And  what  with  me  wouklst  'flcua? 


THE  IMMORTAL  MIND. 

Wheu  coldness  wraps  this  sufl'ering  clay, 

Ah,  whither  strays  the  immortal  mind  ? 
It  caimot  die,  it  cannot  stay, 

But  leaves  its  darkened  dust  behind. 
Then,  unem bodied,  doth  it  trace 

By  steps  each  planet's  heavenly  way? 
Or  fill  at  once  the  realms  of  space, 

A  thing  of  eyes,  that  all  survey  ? 

Eternal,  boundless,  undeca3^ed, 

A  thought  unseen,  but  seeing  all, 
All,  all  in  earth  or  skies  displayed. 

Shall  it  survey,  shall  it  recall : 
Each  fainter  trace  that  memory  holds 

So  darkly  of  departed  yeai\s, 
In  one  broad  glance  the  soul  beholds. 

And  all  that  was  at  once  appears. 

Before  creation  peopled  earth, 

Its  eyes  shall  roll  thiough  chaos  back  ; 
And  where  the  farthest  heaven  had  birth, 

The  spirit  trace  its  rising  track. 
And  where  the  future  mars  or  makes. 

Its  glance  dilate  o'er  all  to  be. 
While  sun  is  quenched  or  system  breaks. 

Fixed  in  its  own  eternity. 

Above  or  love,  hope,  hate,  or  fear. 
It  lives  all  ]iassionl('ss  and  pure  ; 

An  age  shall  fle(^t  like  eartlily  year; 
Its  years  as  moments  shall  endure. 

Away,  away,  without  a  wing. 

O'er  all,  tlirough  all,  its  thoughts  shall 

fly,- 

A  nanu^less  and  eternal  thing, 
Forgetting  what  it  was  to  die. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


127 


PEECT  BTSSEE  SHELLEY. 
[1792-1S22.] 

STANZAS    WEITTEN    IN    DEJECTION 
NEAR  NAPLES. 

The  siin  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear, 
The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright. 
Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 
The  purple  noon's  transparent  light : 
The  breath  of  the  moist  air  is  light 
Around  its  unexpanded  buds ; 
Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight,  — 
The    winds',   the    birds',    the    ocean- 
floods',  — 
The  City's  voice  itself  is  soft  like  Soli- 
tude's. 


I  see  the  Deep's  untrampled  floor 
With    green    and    purple     sea-weeds 

strown ; 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore 
Like  light  dissolved   in  star-showers 

thrown : 
I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone ; 
The  lightning  of  the  noontide  ocean 
Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 
Arises  from  its  measured  motion,  — 
How  sweet,  did  any  heart  now  share  in 

my  emotion ! 

Alas !  I  have  nor  hope  nor  health, 
Nor  peace  within  nor  calm  around. 
Nor  that  content  surpassing  wealth 
The  sage  in  meditation  found, 
And     walked     with     inward     glory 

crowned,  — 
Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor 

leisure ; 
Others  I  see  whom  these  surround,  — 
Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure ; 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  iu  another 

measure. 


Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild 
Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are ; 
I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 
And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which  I  have  borne,  and  yet  must  bear. 
Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me, 
And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 
My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  mo- 
notony. 


TO  A  SKYLARK. 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert. 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heai't 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire  ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest. 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring 
ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 
Thou  dost  float  and  run, 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just 
begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven, 
In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill 
delight. 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven 
is  overflowed. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 
Drops  so  bright  to  see 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of 
melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 
Till  the  workl  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with   hopes  and   fears   it 
heeded  not ; 


128 


SONGS   OF  THEEE   CENTURIES. 


Like  a  liigli-liorn  maiden 

III  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows 
her  bower ; 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  fio vvers  and  grass,  which  screen 
it  from  the  view ; 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these 
heavy-winged  thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Kain-awakened  flowers, 
All  that  ever  was 
Joyous  and  clear   and  fresh   thy  music 
doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine ! 
I  have  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so 
divine. 

Chorus  hymeneal 

Or  triumphal  chant 
Matched  with  thine,  would  be  all 
But  an  empty  vaunt, — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some 
hidden  want. 

What  olyects  are  the  fountains 

Of  tliy  happy  strain  ? 
What  lields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ? 
What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ?  what  igno- 
rance of  pain  ? 

With  thy  clear,  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be ; 
Sliadow  of  annoyance 
Never  came  near  thee  : 
Thou  lovest,  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad 
satiety. 


Waking  or  asleep. 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream. 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a 
crystal  stream? 

We  look  before  and  after. 

And  pijie  for  what  is  not : 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of 
saddest  thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate  and  pride  and  fear ; 
If  we  were  things  born 
Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should 
come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound. 
Better  than  all  treasures 
That  in  books  are  found. 
Thy  skill  to  j'oet  were,  thou  scorner  of 
the  ground ! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know 
Such  hai'monious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow. 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  ara 
listeniu"  now ! 


ONE  WORD  IS  TOO  OFTEN  PROFANED. 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 

For  me  to  ])rofane  it. 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdained 

For  thee  to  disdain  it. 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

P'or  ])rudence  to  smother. 
And  pity  from  thee  is  more  dear 

Than  that  from  another. 

I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love ; 

But  wilt  thou  acce])t  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above, 

And  the  heavens  reject  not,  — 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow. 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow  ? 


JOHN   KEATS. 


129 


JOHN  KEATS. 

[1796-1821.] 

THE  EVE  OF  SALNT  AGNES. 

Saint  Agnes'  Eve,  — ah,  bitter  cliill  it 

was! 
The  owl,  for  all  his  featliers,  was  a-colcl ; 
The  hare  limped   trembling  through 

the  frozen  grass. 
And  silent  was  the  Hock  in  woolly  fold  : 
Numb  were   the    beadsman's  fingers 

while  he  told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seemed  taking  flight  for  heaven  with- 
out a  death. 
Past  the  sweet  virgin's  picture,  while  his 
prayer  he  saith. 

His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy 

man ; 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from 

his  knees. 
And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot, 

wan. 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees : 
The    sculptured   dead,  on   each   side, 

seem  to  freeze. 
Imprisoned  in  black,  purgatoiial  rails : 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  ora- 

t'ries. 
He  passeth  by ;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods 

and  mails. 

Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little 

door, 
And   scarce   three   steps,  ere   music's 

golden  tongue 
Flattered  to  tears  this  aged  man  and 

poor; 
But  no, — already  had  his  death-bell 

rung; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and 

sung ; 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  Saint  Agnes' 

Eve: 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve, 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for   sinners' 

sake  to  grieve. 

That  ancient  beadsman  heard  the  prel- 
ude soft ; 

And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door 
was  wide, 


From  hiirry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  up  aloft, 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gau  to 

chide ; 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their 

pride. 
Were   glowing  to  receive  a  thousand 

guests ; 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed. 
Stared,  where   upon   their  heads  the 

cornice  rests, 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put 

crosswise  on  their  breasts. 

At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry. 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 
The  brain,  new  stuffed  in  youth  with 

triumphs  gay 
Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish 

away. 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  lady 

there, 
Whose    heart  had   brooded,  all   that 

wintry  day. 
On  love,  and  winged  Saint  Agnes' saint- 
ly care. 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many 
times  declare. 

They  told  her  how,  upon  Saint  Agnes' 
Eve, 

Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of 
delight. 

And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  re- 
ceive 

Upon  the  honeyed  middle  of  the  night, 

If  ceremonies  due  they  did  ariglit ; 

As,  supjjerless  to  bed  they  must  re- 
tire, 

And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily 
white ; 

Nor  look    behind,  nor  sideways,  but 
require 
Of  Heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that 
they  desire. 

FuU    of   this  whim  was  thoughtful 

Madeline : 
The  music,  yearning  like  a  god  in  pain, 
She  scarcely  heard;  her  maiden  eyes 

divine, 
Fixed  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweep- 
ing train 
Pass  by, — she  heeded  not  at  all ;  in  vain 
Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier. 
And  back  retired ;  not  cooled  by  high 
disdain. 


130 


SONGS   OF   TIIKEE   CENTURIES. 


But  she  saw  not ;  her  heart  was  other- 
where ; 
She  sighed  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweet- 
est of  the  year. 

She  danced  along  with  vague,  regard- 
less eyes, 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick 

and  sliort : 
The  hallowed  hour  was  near  at  hand : 

she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  thronged 

resort 
Of  whispers,  or  in  anger  or  in  sport ; 
Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and 

scorn, 
Hoodwinked  with  fairy  fancy ;  all  amort, 
Save  to  Saint  Agues,  and  her  lambs 

unshorn, 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow 

morn. 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire. 
She  lingered  still.     Meantime,  across 

tlie  moors. 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart 

on  fire 
For  Madeline.    Beside  the  portal  doors, 
Buttressed  from  moonlight,  stands  he, 

and  implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Made- 
line, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours, 
Tliat  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all 
unseen ; 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss,  —  in 
sooth,  such  things  have  been. 

He  ventures  in  :  let  no  buzzed  whisper 

tell; 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  orahundred  swords 
"Will  storm  his  heart,  love's  feverous 

citadel. 
For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian 

hordes. 
Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords. 
Whose  very  dogs  would   execrations 

howl 
Against  his  lineage;   not   one   breast 

affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul, 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and 

in  soul. 

Ah,  happy  chance  !  the  aged  creature 

came. 
Shuffling    along    with  ivory  -  headed 

wand, 


To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's 

flame, 
Behind  a  broad  hall-piHar,  far  beyond 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus 

bland. 
He  startled  her;   but  soon  she  knew 

his  face. 
And  grasped  his  fingers  in  her  palsied 

hand, 
Saying,    "  Mercy,  Porphyro !    hie  thee 

from  this  place ; 
They  are  all    here   to-night,  the   whole 

bloodthirsty  race ! 

"Get  hence  !  get  hence  !  there 's  dwarf- 
ish Hilde  brand; 
He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house 

and  land : 
Then  there  's  that  old  Lord  Maurice, 

not  a  whit 
More   tame    for  his  gray  bail's — Alas 

me!  Hit! 
Flit  like  a  ghost  away. "  — ' '  Ah  !  gossip 

dear, 
We  're  safe  enough  ;  hero  in  this  arm- 

cliair  sit. 
And   tell   me   how"  —  "Good  saints! 

not  here,  not  hei-e ; 
Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will 

be  thy  bier." 

He  followed  through  a  lowly  arched 

way. 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty 

plume. 
And  as  she  muttered    "  Well-a — well- 

aday !" 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlit  room. 
Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"Now  tell  me   where   is   Madeline," 

said  he, 
"0,  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may 

see, 
When  they  Saint  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving 

piously." 

"Saint  Agnes !  Ah !  it  is  Saint  Agues' 

Eve,— 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days; 
Tbou  mustliold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve. 
And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  elves  and 

ftiys. 
To  venture  so:  it  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro !  —  Saint  Agues' 

Eve! 


JOHN   KEATS. 


131 


God's  help !  my  lady  fair  the  conjurer 
plays 

This  very  night ;  good  angels  her  de- 
ceive ! 
But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I  've   mickle 
time  to  grieve." 

Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid 
moon, 

While  Porphy  ro  upon  her  face  dothlook, 

Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 

Who  keepeth  closed  a  wondrous  riddle- 
book, 

As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney-nook. 

But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when 
she  told 

His  lady's  purpose ;  and  he  scarce  could 
brook 

Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchant- 
ments cold, 
And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full- 
blown rose. 

Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained 
heart 

Made  purple  riot ;  then  doth  he  pro- 
pose 

A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame 
start : 

"A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art ! 

Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep,  and 
dream 

Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 

From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go,  go ! 
—  I  deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that 
thou  didst  seem." 

"I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I 

swear!" 
Quoth  Porphyro ;  "0,  may  I  ne'er  find 

grace. 
When  my  weajc  voice  shall  whisper  its 

last  prayer. 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace. 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face : 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears ; 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space. 
Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's 

ears, 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more 

fanged  than  wolves  and  bears." 

"Ah!  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble 
soul? 

A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  church- 
yard thing, 


Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  mid- 
night toll ; 

Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and 
evening, 

Were  never  missed."  Thus  plaining, 
doth  she  bring 

^  gentler  speech  from  burning  Por- 
phyro ; 

So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing. 

That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal 
or  woe. 

Which  was  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy. 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there 

hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied, 
And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless 

bride. 
While  legioned  fairies  paced  the  cover- 
let. 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy- 
eyed. 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met, 
Since  Merlin   paid   his   demon   all   the 
monstrous  debt. 

"It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the 

dame : 
"All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored 

there 
Quickly  on  this   feast-night :   by  the 

tambour  frame 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see ;  no  time 

to  spare. 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience ; 

kneel  in  prayer 
The  while.     Ah  !  thou  must  needs  the 

lady  wed. 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among 

the  dead." 

So  saying,  she  hobbled  off  with  busy 

fear. 
The    lover's    endless   minutes  slowly 

passed : 
The  dame  returned,  and  whispered  in 

his  ear 
To  follow  her ;  wath  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last. 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they 

gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hushed, 

and  chaste ; 


132 


SOXGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleased 
amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues 
iu  her  brain. 

Her  faltering  hand  upon  the  balus- 
trade, 

Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair, 

"When  Madeline,  Saint  Agnes'  charmed 
maid, 

Eose,  like  a  missioned  sjiirit,  unaware ; 

Witli  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious 
care. 

She  turned,  and  down  the  aged  gossip 
led 

To  a  safe  level  matting.   Now  prepare, 

Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that 
bed! 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring- 
dove frayed  and  fled. 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in. 
Its  little  smoke  in  pallid  moonshine 

died : 
She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  sjiirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide : 
No  uttered  syllable,  or,  woe  betide  ! 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble. 
Paining    with   eloc[uence   her   balmy 

side ; 
As   though  a  tongueless   nightingale 

should  swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled, 

in  her  dell. 

A   casement    high   and   triple-arched 

there  was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of 

knot-grass, 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint 

device, 
Innumerable  of  stains  and   splendid 

dyes 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damasked 

wings ; 
And   in   the   midst,  'mong    thousand 

heraldries. 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  embla- 

zonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  l)lushed  with  blood 

of  queens  and  kings. 

Full  on  this  casemtiut  shone  the  win- 
try moon. 

And  thn'W  warm  gules  on  Madeline's 
fair  breast, 


As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace 

and  boon : 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together 

prest. 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst. 
And    on    her    hair   a    glory,   like    a 

saint : 
She   seemed  a  splendid  angel,  newly 

drest. 
Save   wings,  for    heaven:  —  Por[)hyro 

grew  faint: 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from 

mortal  taint. 

Anon  his  heart  revives ;  her  vespers 
done, 

Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she 
frees ; 

Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by 
one; 

Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice;  by  de- 
grees 

Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  lier 
knees : 

Half  hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea- 
weed. 

Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and 
sees, 

In  fancy,  fair  Saint  Agnes  in  her  bed, 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the 
charm  is  fled. 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly 

nest 
In  sort   of  wakeful  swoon,  perplexed 

she  lay. 
Until   the   poppied  warmth   of  sleep 

op]>ressed 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued 

away ; 
Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  mor- 
row-day ; 
Blissfully  havened  both  from  joy  and 

pain  ; 
Clasped  like  a  missal   where    swart 

Paynims  pray ; 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from 

rain, 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a 

bud  again. 

Stolen   to   this   jiaradise,  and  so  en- 
tranced, 
Por]  ill  yro  gazed  upon  her  em]>ty  dress. 
And   listened  to  her  breathing,  if  it 
chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness ; 


JOHN   KEATS. 


133 


Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute 

did  he  bless, 
And  breathed  himself:  then  from  the 

closet  crept, 
Koiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness. 
And   over  the  hushed  carpet,  silent, 

stept, 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peeped,  where, 

lo !  — how  fast  she  slept. 

Then  by  the  bedside,  where  the  faded 
moon 

Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 

A  table,  and,  half  anguished,  threw 
thereon 

A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and 
jet:  — 

0  for  some  drowsy  Moi'phean  amulet ! 

The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clar- 
ion, 

The  kettle-di'um,  and  far-heard  clar- 
ionet. 

Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying 
tone  :  — 
The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the 
noise  is  gone. 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded 
sleep. 

In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  laven- 
dered, 

While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought 
a  heap 

Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum, 
and  gourd ; 

With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy 
curd. 

And  lucid  syrops,  tinct  with  cinna- 
mon; 

Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferred 

From  Fez ;  and  spiced  dainties,  every 
one, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedared  Leb- 
anon. 

These  delicates  he  heaped  with  glow- 
ing hand 

On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 

Of  wreathed  silver :  sumptuous  they 
stand 

In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night. 

Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume 
light. - 

"And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair, 
awake ! 

Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine 
eremite : 


Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  Saint  Agnes' 
sake. 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul 
doth  ache." 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved 

arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.     Shaded  was  her 

dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains :  —  't  was  a  mid- 
night charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream  : 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight 

gleam ; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies : 
It  seemed  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's 
eyes ; 
So  mused  awhile,  entoiled  in  woofed  fan- 
tasies. 

Awakening  up,  he   took  her   hollow 

lute,  — 
Tumultuous, — and,  in  chords  that  ten- 

derest  be, 
He  played  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since 

mute, 
In  Provence   called,  "La  belle  dame 

sans  mercy" ; 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody  : 
Wherewith   disturbed,  she  uttered   a 

soft  moan ; 
He  ceased — she  panted  quick — and 

suddenly 
Her  blue  atfrayedeyeswideopen  shone : 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  .smooth- 
sculptured  stone. 

Hereyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep : 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigli 

expelled 
The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and 

deep  ; 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep. 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  witli 

many  a  sigh ; 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would 

keep. 
Who   knelt,  with  joined  hands   and 

piteous  eye, 
Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  looked  so 

dreamingly. 

"Ah,  Porphyro  !"  said  she,  "but  even 

now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine 

ear, 


134 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Made  tunable  with  every  sweetest  vow ; 

And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and 
clear ; 

How  changed  thou  art !  how  pallid, 
chill,  and  drear ! 

Giveme  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 

Those  looks  immortal,  those  complain- 
ings dear ! 

0,  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 
For  if  thou  diest,  my  love,  I  know  not 
where  to  go." 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassioned  ftxr 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose. 
Ethereal,  flushed,  and  like  a  throbbing 

star 
Seen  mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep 

repose ; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odor  with  the  violet,  — 
Solution  sweet :   meantime  the  frost- 
wind  blows 
Like  love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp 
sleet 
Against  the  window-panes ;  Saint  Agues' 
moou  hath  set. 

'T  is  dark  :  quick  pattcreth  the  flaw- 
blown  sleet : 

"This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Mad- 
eline !" 

'T  is  dark :  the  iced  gusts  still  rave 
and  beat : 

"Nodi'eam,alas !  alas  !  and  woe  is  mine  ! 

Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade 
and  pine.  — 

Cruel !  what  traitor  could  thee  hither 
bring  ? 

I  curse  not,  formy  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 

Though  thou  forsakestadeceived  thing ; 
A  dove  forlorn  and  lost,  with  sick,  un- 
pruned  wing." 

"My  Madeline !  sweet  dreamer !  lovely 

bride ! 
Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest  ? 
Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shaped  and 

vermeil  dyed  ? 
Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my 

rust 
After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
A  famished  [ulgrim,  —  saved  by  miracle. 
Though  1  have  found,  I  W'ill  not  rob 

thy  nest 
Saving  of  thy  sweet  self ;  if  thou  think'st 

well 
To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel. " 


"Hark  !  't  is  an  elfin-stonn  from  fairy- 
land. 

Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed  : 

Arise,  — arise  !  the  morning  is  at  hand  ; 

The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed  : 

Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy 
speed ; 

There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to 
see, 

Drowned  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy 
mead : 

Awake !  arise !  my  love,  and  fearless  be, 
For  o'er  the  soiitliem  moors  I  have  a 
home  for  thee." 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with 

fears. 
For   there  were  sleeping  dragons   all 

around. 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready 

spears,  — 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way 

they  found,  — 
In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human 

sound. 
A  chain-dropped  lamp  was  flickering 

by  each  door ; 
The  arras,  rich  with  horseman,  hawk, 

and  hound, 
Fluttered  in  the  besieging  wind's  up- 
roar. 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty 

floor. 

They  glide,   like  phantoms,   into  the 

wide  hall ; 
Like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch  they 

glide. 
Where  lay  the  porter,  in  uneasy  s])ra  wl, 
With   a   huge   empty   flagon   by   his 

side : 
The   wakeful   bloodhound    rose,   and 

shook  his  hide, 
But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns : 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy 

slide ; 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  foot-worn 

stones ; 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its 

hinges  groans. 

And  they  are  gone :  ay,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  baron  dreamt  of  many 

a  woe, 
And  all  his  wairior-guests,  with  shade 

and  form 


JAMES   MONTGOMERY. 


135 


Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin- 
worm. 

Were   long  be-niglitniared.      Angela 
the  old. 

Died  palsy-twitched,  with  meagre  face 
deform. 

The   beadsman,  after   thousand  aves 
told. 
For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his 
ashes  cold. 


JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 
[1771-1854.] 

THE  COMMON  LOT. 

Once,  in  the  flight  of  ages  past, 

There  lived  a  man  ;  and  who  was  he? 

Mortal !  howe'er  thy  lot  be  cast, 
Tliat  man  resembled  thee. 

Unknown  the  region  of  his  birth. 

The  land  in  which  he  died  unknown ; 

His  name  has  perished  from  the  earth. 
This  truth  survives  alone  : 

That  joy,  and  grief,  and  ho]ie,  and  fear, 
Alternate  triumphed  in  his  breast; 

His  bliss  and  woe,  — a  smile,  a  tear ! 
Oblivion  hides  the  rest. 

He  suffered, — but  his  pangs  are  o'er ; 

Enjoyed,  — but  his  delights  are  fled ; 
Had   friends, — his  friends  are   now  no 
more ; 

And  foes, — his  foes  are  dead. 

He  saw  whatever  thou  hast  seen  ; 

Encountered  all  that  troubles  thee  : 
He  was — whatever  thou  hast  been; 

He  is — what  thou  shalt  be. 

The  rolling  seasons,  day  and  night. 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  the  earth  and 
main, 

Erewhile  his  portion ,  life,  and  light, 
To  him  exist  in  vain. 

The  clouds  and  sunbeams,  o'er  his  eye 
That  once  their  shades  and  glory  threw, 

Have  left  in  yonder  silent  sky 
No  vestige  where  they  flew. 


The  annals  of  the  human  race. 

Their  ruins,  since  the  world  began, 

Of  him  ati'ord  no  other  trace 
Than  this,  — there  lived  a  man ! 


FOREVER  WITH  THE  LORD. 

Forever  with  the  Lord ! 
Amen  !  so  let  it  be  ! 
Life  from  the  dead  is  in  that  woi'd, 
And  immortality. 

Here  in  the  body  pent. 
Absent  from  Him  I  roam. 
Yet  nightly  pitch  my  moving  tent 
A  day's  march  nearer  home. 

My  Father's  house  on  high. 
Home  of  my  soul !  how  near, 
At  times,  to  faith's  foreseeing  eye 
Thy  golden  gates  appear ! 

Ah  !  then  my  spirit  faints 
To  reach  the  land  1  love. 
The  bright  inlieritance  of  saints, 
Jerusalem  above ! 


Yet  clouds  will  intervene. 
And  all  my  pros]iect  flies ; 
Like  Noah's  dove,  I  flit  between 
Rough  seas  and  stormy  skies. 

Anon  the  clouds  depart, 
Tlie  winds  and  waters  cease ; 
While  sweetly  o'er  my  gladdened  heart 
Expands  the  bow  of  peace ! 

Beneath  its  glowing  arch, 
Along  the  hallowed  ground, 
I  see  cherubic  armies  march, 
A  camp  of  fire  around. 

I  hear  at  morn  and  even, 
At  noon  and  midnight  hour. 
The  choral  harmonies  of  heaven 
Earth's  Babel  tongues  o'erpower. 

Then,  then  I  feel  that  He, 
Eemembered  or  forgot, 
The  Loid,  is  never  far  from  me. 
Though  I  perceive  him  not. 


136 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES, 


In  darkness  as  in  light, 
Hidden  alike  from  view, 
I  sleep,  I  wake,  as  in  his  sight 
Who  looks  all  nature  through. 

All  that  I  am,  have  been, 
All  that  I  yet  may  be, 
He  sees  at  once,  as  he  hath  seen, 
Aud  shall  forever  see. 

"Forever  with  the  Lord"  : 
Father,  if  't  is  thy  will. 
The  promise  of  that  faithful  word 
Unto  thy  child  fultil ! 

So,  when  my  latest  breath 
Shall  rend  the  veil  in  twain, 
By  death  I  shall  escape  from  death, 
And  life  eternal  gain. 


PRAYER. 

Prayer  is  the  soul's  sincere  desire 

Uttered  or  unexjoressed. 
The  motion  of  a  hidden  fire 

That  trembles  in  the  breast. 

Prayer  is  the  burden  of  a  sigh, 

The  falling  of  a  tear ; 
The  upward  glancing  of  an  eye. 

When  none  but  God  is  near. 

Prayer  is  the  simplest  form  of  speech 

That  infant  li})s  can  try; 
Prayer  the  sublimest  strains  that  reach. 

The  Majesty  on  high. 

Prayer  is  the  Christian's  vital  breath, 

The  Christian's  native  air ; 
His  watchword  at  the  gates  of  death : 

He  enters  heaven  by  prayer. 

Prayer  is  the  contrite  sinner's  voice 

Returning  from  his  ways ; 
While  angels  in  their  songs  rejoice. 

And  say,  "Behold  he  prays!" 

0  Thou,  by  whom  we  come  to  God, 
The  Lif(!,  the  Trutli,  tlio  Way, 

The  path  of  prayer  thyself  hast  trod  : 
Lord,  teach  us  how  to  pray  ! 


HELEN  MARIA  WILLIAMS. 
[1762- 1827.] 

WHILST  THEE  I  SEEK. 

Whilst  Thee  I  seek,  protecting  Power, 

Be  my  vain  wishes  stilled  ! 
And  may  this  cousecrated  hour 

With  better  hojjcs  be  tilled. 

Thy  love  the  power  of  thought  bestowed ; 

To  thee  my  thoughts  would  soar: 
Thy  mercy  o'er  my  life  has  flowed, 

"rhat  mercy  I  adore. 

In  each  event  of  life,  how  clear 

Thy  ruling  hand  I  see  ! 
Each  blessing  to  my  soul  more  dear, 

Because  conferred  by  thee. 

In  every  joy  that  crowns  my  days, 

In  every  pain  I  bear, 
My  heart  shall  find  delight  in  praise, 

Or  seek  relief  in  prayer. 

When  gladness  wings  my  favored  hour, 
Thy  love  my  thoughts  shall  fill ; 

Resigned,  when  storms  of  sorrow  lower, 
My  soul  shall  meet  thy  will. 

My  lifted  eye,  without  a  tear. 
The  gathering  storm  shall  see; 

My  steadfast  heart  shall  know  no  fear; 
That  heart  shall  rest  ou  thee. 


UNKNOWN. 

THERE  WAS  SILENCE  IN  HEAVEN. 

Can  angel  spirits  need  repose 
In  the  full  sunlight  of  the  sky? 

And  can  the  veil  of  slumber  close 
A  cherub's  bright  and  blazing  eye  ? 

Have  seraphim  a  weary  brow, 

A  fainting  lieart,  an  aching  breast? 

No,  far  too  higli  their  jmlses  flow 
To  languish  with  inglorious  rest. 

O,  not  the  deathdike  calm  of  sleep 
Could  hush  the  everlasting  song; 

No  fairy  dreaiii  or  slumber  deep 
Entrance  the  rapt  and  holy  throng. 


JOHN   QUINCY  ADAMS.  —  WALTER   SAVAGE   LANDOR.  137 


Yet  not  the  lightest  tone  was  heard 
From  angel  voice  or  angel  hand ; 

And  not  one  plumed  pinion  stirred 
Among  the  pure  and  blissful  band. 

For  there  was  silence  in  the  sky, 
A  joy  not  angel  tongues  could  tell, 

As  from  its  mystic  fount  on  high 
The  peace  of  God  in  stillness  fell. 

0,  what  is  silence  here  below  ? 

The  fruit  of  a  concealed  despair; 
The  pause  of  pain,  the  dream  of  woe ; — 

It  is  the  rest  of  rapture  there. 

And  to  the  wayworn  pilgrim  here, 
More  kindred  seems  that  perfect  peace, 

Than  the  full  chants  of  joy  to  hear 
Roll  on,  and  never,  never  cease. 

From  earthly  agonies  set  free, 

Tired  with  the  path  too  slowly  trod. 

May  such  a  silence  welcome  me 
Into  the  palace  of  my  God. 


JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS. 

[U.  S.  A.,  1767- 1848.] 

TO  A  BEEEAVED  MOTHER. 

Sure,  to  the  mansions  of  the  blest 

When  infant  innocence  ascends, 
Some  angel,  brighter  than  the  rest. 

The  spotless  spirit's  flight  attends. 
Ou  wings  of  ecstasy  they  rise. 

Beyond  where  worlds  material  roll. 
Till  seme  fair  sister  of  the  skies 

Receives  the  unpolluted  soul. 
That  inextinguishable  beam, 

With  dust  united  at  our  birth. 
Sheds  a  more  dim,  discolored  gleam 

The  more  it  lingers  upon  earth. 

But  when  the  Lord  of  mortal  breath 

Decrees  his  bounty  to  resume, 
And^  points  the  silent  shaft  of  death 
^  Which  speeds  an  infant  to  the  tomb, 
Ko  passion  fierce,  nor  low  desire. 

Has  quenched  the  radiance  of  the  flame  : 
Back  to  its  God  the  li\ing  fire 

Reverts,  unclouded  as  it  came. 
Fond  mourner  !  be  that  solace  thine  ! 

Let  Hope  her  healing  charm  impart, 
And  soothe,  with  melodies  divine, 

The  anguish  of  a  mother's  heart. 


0,  think  !  the  darlings  of  thy  love, 

Divested  of  this  earthly  clod, 
Amid  unnumbered  saints,  above. 

Bask  in  the  bosom  of  their  God. 
O'er  thee,  with  looks  of  love,  they  lend ; 

For  thee  the  Lord  of  life  implore ; 
And  oft  from  sainted  bliss  descend 

Thy  wounded  fpiiet  to  restore. 
Then  dry,  henceforth,  the  bitter  tear ; 

Their  part  and  thine  inverted  see. 
Thou  wert  their  guardian  angel  here, 

They  guardian  angels  now  to  thee. 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOE. 

[1775- 1S64.] 

LAMENT. 

I  LOVED  him  not ;  and  yet,  now  heisgone, 

I  feel  I  am  alone. 
I   checked   him    while   he   spoke;    yet, 
could  he  speak, 

Alas  !  I  would  not  check. 

For  reasons  not  to  love  him  once  I  sought. 
And  wearied  all  my  thought 

To  vex  myself  and  him  :  1  now  would  give 
My  love,  could  he  but  live 

Who  lately  lived  for  me,  and,  when  ho 
found 
'T  was  vain,  in  holy  ground 

He  hid  his  face  amid  the  shades  of  death ! 

I  waste  for  him  my  bieath 
Who  wasted  his  forme  1  but  mine  returns, 

And  this  lorn  bosom  burns 
With  stifling  heat,  heaving  it  up  in  sleep, 

And  waking  me  to  weep 
Tears  that  had  melted  his  soft  heart :  for 
years 

Wejit-he  as  bitter  tears ! 

"Merciful  God!"    such   was   his  latest 
prayer, 

"These  may  she  never  share  !" 
Quieter  is  his  breath,  his  breast  more  cold 

Than  daisies  in  the  mould, 
Where  children  spell,  athwart  the  church- 
yard gate. 

His  name  and  life's  brief  date. 
Pray  forhim,  gentle  souls,  whoe'er  you  be. 

And,  0,  pray,  too,  for  me ! 


138 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTUEIES. 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


[1777-1844] 

THE  LAST  MAN. 

All  worldly  shapes  shall  melt  in  gloom, 

The  sun  himself  must  die, 
Before  this  mortal  shall  assume 

Its  immortality ! 
I  saw  a  vision  in  my  sleep. 
That  gave  my  spirit  strength  to  sweep 

Adown  the  gulf  of  time  ! 
I  saw  the  last  of  human  mould 
That  shall  creation's  death  behold, 

As  Adam  saw  her  prune ! 

The  sun's  eye  had  a  sickly  glare, 

The  earth  with  age  was  wan ; 
The  skeletons  of  nations  were 

Around  that  lonely  man  ! 
Some  had  expired  in  fight,  —the  brands 
Still  rusted  in  their  bony  hands, 

In  plague  and  famine  some ! 
Earth's  cities  had  no  sound  nor  tread ; 
And  ships  were  drifting  with  the  dead 

To  shores  where  all  was  dumb ! 

Yet,  prophet-like,  that  lone  one  stood. 

With  dauntless  words  and  high. 
That  shook  the  sere  leaves  from  the  wood, 

As  if  a  storm  passed  by,  ■,  a      , 

Saying,  Weare  twins  in  death,  proud  Sun ! 
Thy  face  is  cold,  thy  race  is  run, 

'T  is  Mercy  bids  thee  go ; 
For  thou  ten  thousand  thousand  years 
Hast  seen  the  tide  of  human  tears, 

That  shall  no  longer  flow. 


Its  piteous  pageants  bring  not  back. 
Nor  waken  tiesh,  upon  the  rack 

Of  pain  anew  to  writhe ; 
Stretched  in  disease's  shapes  abhorred, 
Or  mown  in  battle  by  the  sword, 

Like  grass  beneath  the  scythe. 

Even  I  am  weary  in  yon  skies 

To  watch  thy  fading  fire ; 
Test  of  all  sumless  agonies. 

Behold  not  me  expire. 
My  lips  that  speak  thy  dirge  of  death,  -- 
Their  rounded  gasp  and  gurgling  breath 

To  see  thou  shalt  not  boast. 
The  eclipse  of  Nature  spreads  my  pall. 
The  majesty  of  darkness  shall 

Keceive  my  parting  ghost ! 

This  spirit  shall  return  to  Him 

Who  gave  its  heavenly  spark ; 
Yet  think  not.  Sun,  it  shall  be  dim 

When  thou  thyself  art  dark  ! 
No !  it  shall  live  again,  and  shine 
In  bliss  unknown  to  beams  of  thine, 

By  him  recalled  to  breath. 
Who  captive  led  captivity. 
Who  robbed  the  grave  of  victory, 

And  took  the  sting  from  death ! 

Go,  Sun,  while  mercy  holds  me  up 

On  Nature's  awful  waste 
To  drink  this  last  and  bitter  cup 

Of  grief  that  man  sliall  taste,  — 
Go,  tell  the  night  that  hides  thy  face, 
Thou  saw'st  the  last  of  Adam's  race. 

On  earth's  sepulchral  clod, 
The  darkening  universe  defy 
To  quench  his  immortality, 

Or  shake  his  trust  in  God ! 


What  though  beneath  thee  man  put  forth 

His  pomp,  his  pride,  his  skill ; 
And  arts  that  made  fire,  flood,  and  earth 

The  vassals  of  his  will? 
Yet  mourn  I  not  thy  parted  sway, 
Thou  dim,  discrowned  king  of  day ; 

For  all  those  trophied  arts 
And  triumphs  tliat  beneath  thee  sprang. 
Healed  not  a  ])assion  or  a  pang 

Entailed  on  human  hearts. 

Go,  let  oblivion's  curtain  fall 

Upon  th(^  stase  of  men. 
Nor  with  thy  rising  l)eams  recall 

Life's  tragedy  again : 


GLENARA. 

0,  iiEAKD  ye  yon  pibroch  sound  sad  in 
the  gale. 

Where  a  band  cometh  slowly  with  weep- 
ing and  wail  ? 

'T  is  the  chief  of  Glenara  laments  for  his 
dear; 

And  her  sire,  and  the  people,  are  called 
to  her  bier. 

Glenara  came  first  with  the  mourners  and 

shroud ; 
Her  kinsmen  they  followed,  but  mourned 

not  aloud : 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


139 


TTieir  plaids  all  tlieir  tosoms  were  folded 

around ; 
Tliey  marched  ail  in  silence,  —  they  looked 

on  the  ground. 

In  silence  they  marched  over  mountain 

and  moor, 
To   a  heath   where   the   oak-tree    gi'ew 

lonely  and  hoar : 
"Now  here  let  us  place  the  gray  stone 

of  her  cairu : 
Why  speak  ye  no  word?"  —  said  Gleuara 

the  stern. 

"And  tell  me,  I  charge  you !  ye  clan  of 
my  spouse. 

Why  fold  ye  your  mantles,  why  cloud  ye 
your  brows?" 

So  spake  the  rude  chieftain  : — no  answer 
is  made. 

But  each  mantle  unfolding,  a  dagger  dis- 
played. 

•*  I  dreamt  of  my  lady,  I  dreamt  of  her 

shroud," 
Cried    a    voice    from  the  kinsmen,  all 

wrathful  and  loud ; 
"And  empty  that  shroud  and  that  cofRn 

did  seem : 
Glenara !    Glenara !    now   read  me   my 

dream!" 

0,  pale  grew  the  cheek  of  that  chieftain, 

I  ween. 
When  the  shroud  was  unclosed,  and  no 

lady  was  seen ; 
When  a  voice  from  the  kinsmen  spoke 

louder  in  scorn, 
'T  was  the  youtli  who  had  loved  the  fair 

Ellen  of  Lorn : 

"I  dreamt  of  my  lady,  I  dreamt  of  her 

grief, 
I  dreamt  that  her  lord  was  a  barbarous 

chief : 
On  a  rock  of  the  ocean  fair  Ellen  did 

seem ; 
Glenara !    Glenara !    now   read  me  my 

dream!" 

In  dust,  low  the  traitor  has  knelt  to  the 

ground. 
And  the  desert  revealed  where  his  lady 

was  found ; 
From  a  rock  of  the  ocean  that  beauty  is 

borne,  — 
Now  joy  to  the  house  of  fair  Ellen  of 

Lorn! 


LORD  TTLLIN'S  DAUGHTER. 

A  CHIEFTAIN,  to  the  Highlands  bound, 
Cries,  "Boatman,  do  not  tarry! 

And  I  'il  give  thee  a  silver  jiouud 
To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry." 

"Now  who  be  ye,  would  cross  Lochgyle, 
This  dark  and  stormy  M-ater  ? " 

"0,  I  'm  the  chief  of  Ulva's  isle. 
And  this  Lord  Ullin's  daughter. 

"  And  fast  before  her  fiither's  men 
Three  days  we  've  tied  together. 

For  should  he  find  us  in  the  glen. 
My  blood  would  stain  the  heather. 

"  His  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride ; 

Should  they  our  steps  discover. 
Then  who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride 

When  they  have  slain  her  lover?" 

Out  spoke  the  hardy  Highland  wight : 
"I  '11  go,  my  chief,  —  I  'm  ready; 

It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright. 
But  for  your  winsome  lady ; 

"And  by  my  word !  the  bonny  bird 

In  danger  shall  not  tarry : 
So,  though  tlie  waves  are  raging  white, 

I  '11  row  you  o'er  the  ferry." 

By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace. 
The  water-wraith  was  shrieking ; 

And  in  the  scowl  of  heaven  each  face 
Grew  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 

But  still,  as  wilder  blew  the  wind, 
And  as  the  night  giew  drearer, 

Adown  the  glen  rode  armed  men, — 
Their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 

"0,  haste  thee,  haste!"  the  lady  cries, 
"Thougli  tempests  round  us  gather; 

I  '11  meet  tlie  raging  of  the  skies, 
But  not  an  angry  father." 

The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 

A  stormy  sea  before  her,  — 
When,  0,  too  strong  for  luiman  hand, 

The  tempest  gathered  o'er  her  ! 

And  still  they  rowed  amidst  the  roar 

Of  waters  fast  prevailing  : 
Lord  UUin  reached  that  fatal  shore; 

His  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. 


140 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


For,  sore  dismayed,  througli  storm  and 
shade, 

His  child  he  did  discover ; 
One  lovely  hand  she  stretched  for  aid, 

And  one  was  round  her  lover. 

"Comeback!  come  back!"  he  cried  in 
grief, 

"Across  this  stormy  water; 
And  I  '11  forgive  your  Highland  chief. 

My  daughter !  —  0  my  daughter ! " 

'T  was  vain ;  —  the  loud  waves  lashed  the 
shore, 

Return  or  aid  preventing ; 
The  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child, 

And  he  was  left  lamenting. 


HOEACB  SMITH. 

[1779- 1849.] 

HYMN  TO  THE  FLOWERS. 

Day-stars  !   that   ope   your  eyes  with 
morn,  to  twinkle 
From  rainbow  galaxies  of  earth's  crea- 
tion, 
And  dew-dro]is  on  her  holy  altars  sprinkle 
As  a  libation. 

Ye   matin    worshippers !    who,  bending 
lowly 
Before  the  uprisen  sun,  God's  lidless 
eyo, 
Throw  from  your  chalices  a  sweet  and  holy 
Incense  on  high. 

Ye  bright  mosaics !    that   with    storied 
beauty 
The  floor  of  nature's  temple  tessellate, 
What  numerous  emblems  of  instructive 
duty 
Your  forms  create  I 

'Neath  cloistered  boughs,  each  floral  bell 
that  swingeth. 
And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  passing 
air, 
Makes  Sabbath  in  the   fields,  and   ever 
ringeth 
A  call  to  prayer. 

Not  to  the  domes  where  crumbling  arch 
and  column 
Attest  the  fei'-blcuess  of  mortal  hand, 


But   to   that   fane,  most    catholic    and 
solemn. 
Which  God  hath  planned ; 

To  that  cathedral,  boundless  as  our  won- 
der, 
Whose  qxienchless  lamps  the  sun  and 
moon  supply; 
Its  choir  the  winds  and  waves,  its  organ 
thunder. 
Its  dome  the  sky. 

There,  as  in  solitude  and  shade  I  wander 
Through  the  green  aisles,  or  stretched 
upon  the  sod, 
Awed  by  the  silence,  reverently  I  ponder 
The  ways  of  God, 

Your  voiceless  lips,  0  flowers !  are  living 
preachers. 
Each  cup  a  pulpit,  and   each  leaf  a 
book. 
Supplying  to  my  fancy  numerous  teachers 
From  loneliest  nook. 

Floral  apostles !  that  in  dewy  splendor 
"Weep  withoutwoe,  andblush  without 
a  crime," 
0,  may  I  deeply  learn,  and  ne'er  surrender 
Your  lore  sublime ! 

"Thou  wert  not,  Solomon,  in   all   thy 
glory. 
Arrayed,"  the  lilies  cry,  "in  robes  like 
ours ; 
How  vain  your  grandeur  !  ah,  how  tran- 
sitory 
Are  human  flowers!" 

In  the  sweet-scented  pictures,  heavenly 
Artist, 
With   which   thou   paintest  Nature's 
widc-s]n-ead  hall. 
What  a  delightful  lesson  thou  impartest 
Of  love  to  all ! 

Not  useless  are  ye,  flowers !  though  made 
for  pleasure  ; 
Blooming  o'er  field  and  wave  by  day 
and  night. 
From  every  source   your   sanction    bids 
me  treasure 
Harmless  delight. 

l^phemeral  sages  !  what  instructors  hoary 
For  such   ii  world   of  thought  could 
furnish  scope? 


HOEACE   SMITH. 


141 


Each  fading  calyx  a  memento  mori, 
Yet  fount  of  hope. 

Posthumous    glories!  angel-like    collec- 
tion ! 
Upraised  from  seed  or  bulb  interred  in 
earth, 
Ye  are  to  me  a  type  of  resurrection, 
A  second  birth. 

Were  I,  0  God  !  in  churchless  lands  re- 
maining, 
Far  from  all  voice  of  teachers  or  di- 
vines, 
My  soul  would  find,  in  flowers  of  thy 
ordaining, 
Priests,  sermons,  shrines ! 


ADDRESS  TO  AN  EGYPTIAJST  MUMMY. 

AxD    thou    hast    walked   about  —  how 
strange  a  story  !  — 
In   Thebes's   streets,    three   thousand 
years  ago ! 

When  the  Memnonium  was   in   all   its 
glOTy, 
And   time   had    not    begun    to   over- 
throw 

Those  temples,  palaces,  and  jjiles  stupen- 
dous. 

Of  which  the  very  ruins  are  tremendous  ! 

Speak !  for  thou  long  enough  hast  acted 

dummy ; 
Thou  hast  a  tongue,  — come,  let  us  hear 

its  tune ! 
Thou  'rt   standing  on   thy  legs,   above 

ground,  mummy ! 
Revisiting  the  glimpses  of  the  moon,  — 
Not    like   thin  ghosts   or   disembodied 

creatures. 
But  with  thy  bones,  and  flesh,  and  limbs, 

and  features ! 

Tell  us,  — for  doubtless  thou  canst  recol- 
lect, — 
To  whom  should  we  assign  the  Sphinx's 
fame  ? 

Was  Cheops  or  Cephrenes  architect 
Of    either    pyramid    that    bears    his 
name  ? 

Is  Pompey's  Pillar  really  a  misnomer? 

Had  Thebes  a  hundred  gates,  as  sung  by 
Homer  ? 


Perhaps  thou  wert  a  Mason,  and  forbid- 
den, 
By  oath,  to  tell  the  mysteries  of  thy 
trade ; 

Then  say,  what  secret  melody  was  hidden 
In  Memnon's  statue,  which  at  sunrise 
played  ? 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a   priest ;  if  so,  mj' 
struggles 

Are  vain,  for  priestcraft  never  owns  its 
juggles ! 

Perchance  that  very  hand,  now  iiinioned 
flat. 
Hath    hob-a-nobbed    with    Pharaoh, 
glass  to  glass ; 

Or  dropped  a  halfpenny  in  Homer's  hat ; 
Or  doffed  thine  own,  to  let  Queen  Dido 
pass  ; 

Or  held,  by  Solomon's  own  invitation, 

A  torch,  at  the  great  temj^le's  dedica- 
tion ! 

I  need  not  ask  thee  if  that  hand,  when 

armed, 
Has  any  Roman  soldier  mauled   and 

knuckled ; 
For  thou  weit  dead,  and  buried,  and  em- 

lialnied, 
Ere   Pomxilus   and   Remus   had   been 

suckled : 
Antiquity  appears  to  have  begun 
Long  after  thy  piinjeval  race  was  run. 

Thou  couldst  develop,  if  that  witliered 

tongue 
Might  tell  us  what  those  sightless  orbs 

have  seen. 
How  the  world  looked  when  it  was  fresh 

and  young. 
And  the  great  deluge  still  had  left  it 

green ; 
Or  was   it   then  so   old   that   history's 

pages 
Contained  no  record  of  its  early  ages  ? 

Still  silent!  —  Incommunicative  elf! 
Art  sworn  to  secrecy?    Tlien  keep  thy 
vows ! 

But,  prithee,  tell  us  sometliing  of  thy- 
self, — 
Reveal  the  secrets  of  thy  prison-house ; 

Since  in  the  world  of  spirits  thou  hast 
slumbered, 

What  hast  thou  seen,  what  strange  ad- 
ventures numbered  ? 


142 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Since   first  tliy  form  was  in   this  box 

extended, 
We   have,  above   ground,  seen   some 

strange  mutations ; 
The  Roman  Empire  has  begun  and  ended, 
New  workls  have  risen,  we  liave  lost 

okl  nations, 
And  countless  kings  have  into  dust  been 

humbled, 
While  not  a  fragment  of  thy  flesh  has 

crumbled. 

Didst  thou  not  hear  the  pother  o'er  thy 

head, 
When   the   gi-eat   Persian  conqueror, 

Cambyses, 
Marched    armies    o'er    thy   tomb   with 

thundering  tread, 
O'erthrew  Osiris,  Orus,  Apis,  Isis, — 
And  shook  the  pyramids  with  fear  and 

wonder. 
When  the  gigantic  Memnon  fell  asunder? 

If  the  tomb's  secrets  may  not  be  con- 
fessed, 
The  nature  of  thy  private  life  unfold ! 

A   heart   hath   throbbed    beneath   that 
leatkern  breast. 
And   tears   adowu   that   dusty  cheek 
have  rolled ; 

Have  children  climbed  those  knees,  and 
kissed  that  face? 

What  was  thy  name  and  station,  age  and 
race? 

Statue  of  flesh  !  Immortal  of  the  dead ! 
Imperishable  type  of  evanescence ! 

Posthumous    man, — who    quitt'st    thy 
narrow  bed. 
And  standest  undecayed  within   our 
presence ! 

Thou  wilt  hear  nothing  till  the  judg- 
ment morning. 

When  the  great  trump  shall  thrill  thee 
with  its  warning ! 

Why  should    this  worthless  tegument 
endure. 
If  its  undying  guest  be  lost  forever? 

0,  let  us  kecj)  the  soul  embalmed  and 
pure 
In   living   virtue,  — that   when   both 
must  sever, 

Although  corruption  may  our  frame  con- 
sume, 

The  immortal  spirit  in  the  skies   may 
bloom ! 


EBENEZER  ELLIOTT. 
[1781-1849.] 

A  GHOST  AT  NOON. 

The  day  was  dark,  save  when  the  beam 

Of  noon  through  darkness  broke; 
In  gloom  I  sat,  as  in  a  dream, 

Beneath  my  orchard  oak ; 
Lo  !  s})lendor,  like  a  spirit,  came, 

A  shadow  like  a  tree ! 
While  there  I  sat,  and  named  her  name 

Who  once  sat  there  with  me. 

I  started  from  the  seat  in  fear; 

I  looked  around  in  awe, 
But  saw  no  beauteous  spirit  near, 

Though  all  that  was  I  saw,  — 
The  seat,  the  tree,  where  oft,  in  tears, 

She  mourned  her  hopes  o'erthrown, 
Her  joys  cut  off  in  early  years. 

Like  gathered  flowers  half  blown. 

Again  the  bud  and  breeze  were  met, 

But  Mary  did  not  come; 
And  e'en  the  rose,  which  she  had  set, 

Was  fated  ne'er  to  bloom  ! 
The  thrush  proclaimed,  in  accents  sweet, 

That  winter's  reign  was  o'er ; 
The  bluebells  thronged  around  my  feet, 

But  Mary  came  no  more. 


FOREST  WORSHIP. 

Within  the  sunlit  forest, 

Our  roof  the  bright  blue  sky. 
Where  fountains  flow,  and  wild-flowers 
blow, 

We  lift  our  hearts  on  high  : 
Beneath  the  frown  of  wicked  men 

Our  country's  strength  is  bowing ; 
But,  thanks  to  God  !  they  can't  prevent 

The  lone  wild-flowers  from  blowing! 

High,  high  above  the  tree-tops, 

'Tlie  lark  is  soaring  free ; 
Where  streams  the  light  through  broken 
clouds 

His  speckled  breast  I  see  : 
Beneath  the  might  of  wicked  men 

Tlu!  j)oor  man's  worth  is  dying; 
But,  thanked  be  God!  in  spite  of  them, 

The  lark  still  warbles  flying ! 


EEGINALD  HEBEK. 


143 


The  preacher  prays,  "Lord,  bless  us !" 

"Lord,  bless  us  ! "  echo  cries ; 
"Aiueu  !"  the  breezes  murmur  low; 

"Amen  !"  the  rill  replies : 
The  ceaseless  toil  of  woe-worn  hearts 

The  proud  with  paligs  are  paying, 
But  here,  0  God  of  earth  and  heaven ! 

The  humble  heart  is  praying. 

How  softly,  in  the  pauses 

Of  song,  re-echoed  wide. 
The  cushat's  coo,  the  linnet's  lay, 

O'er  rill  and  river  glide ! 
With  evil  deeds  of  evil  men 

The  affrighted  land  is  ringing; 
But  still,  0  Lord,  the  pious  heart 

And  souLtonud  voice  are  singing ! 

Hush  !  hush  !  the  preacher  preacheth: 

"Woe  to  the  oppressor,  woe !" 
But  sudden  gloom  o'ercasts  the  sun 

And  saddened  flowers  below ; 
So  frowns  the  Lord  !  — but,  tyrants,  ye 

Deride  his  indignation. 
And  see  not  in  the  gathered  brow 

Your  days  of  tribulation ! 

Speak  low,  thou  heaven-paid  teacher ! 

The  tempest  bursts  above  : 
God  whispers  in  the  thunder;  hear 

The  terrors  of  liis  love  ! 
On  useful  hands  and  honest  hearts 

Tlie  base  their  wrath  are  wreaking; 
But,  thanked  be  God  !  they  can't  prevent 

The  storm  of  heaven  from  speaking. 


CORN-LAW  HYMN, 

LoED !  call  thy  pallid  angel, 

The  tamer  of  the  strong ! 
And  bid  him  whip  with  want  and  woe 

The  champions  of  the  wrong ! 
0,  say  not  thou  to  ruin's  flood, 

"Up,  sluggard  !  why  so  slow?" 
But  alone  let  them  groan, 

The  lowest  of  the  low ; 
And  basely  beg  the  bread  they  curse, 

Where  millions  curse  them  now ! 

No ;  wake  not  thou  the  giant 
Who  drinks  hot  blood  for  wine. 

And  shouts  unto  the  east  and  west, 
In  thunder-tones  like  thine. 

Till  the  slow  to  move  rush  all  at  once, 
An  avalanche  of  men, 


While  he  raves  over  waves 
That  need  no  whirlwind  then  ; 
Though  slow  to  move,  moved  all  at  once, 
A  sea,  a  sea  of  men  ! 


EEGINALD  HEBER. 

[17S3- 1826.] 

IF  THOU  WERT  BY  MY  SIDE. 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love. 
How  fast  would  evening  fail 

In  green  Bengala's  palmy  grove, 
Listening  the  nightingale ! 

If  thou,  my  love,  wert  by  my  side. 

My  babies  at  my  knee. 
How  gayly  would  our  pinnace  glide 

O'er  Gunga's  mimic  sea ! 

I  miss  thee  at  the  dawning  gray, 
When,  on  our  deck  reclined. 

In  careless  ease  my  limbs  I  lay, 
And  woo  the  cooler  wind. 

I  miss  thee  when  by  Gunga's  stream 

My  twilight  steps  1  guide, 
But  most  beneath  the  lamp's  pale  beam 

I  miss  tliee  from  my  side, 

I  spread  my  books,  my  pencil  try, 
The  lingering  noon  to  cheer. 

But  miss  thy  kind,  approving  eye. 
Thy  meek,  attentive  ear. 

But  when  of  morn  or  eve  the  star 

Beholds  me  on  my  knee, 
I  feel,  though  thou  art  distant  far, 

Thy  jDrayers  ascend  for  me. 

Then  on  !  then  on  !  where  duty  leads. 

My  course  be  onward  still ; 
O'er  broad  Hindostan's  sultry  meads. 

O'er  bleak  Almorah's  liill. 

That  course  nor  Delhi's  kingly  gates 

Nor  wild  Malwah  detain ; 
For  sweet  the  bliss  us  both  awaits 

By  yonder  western  main. 

Thy  towers,  Bombay,  gleam  bright,  they 
say, 

Across  the  dark-blue  sea ; 
But  ne'er  were  hearts  so  light  and  gay 

As  then  shall  meet  in  thee ! 


144 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTUEIES. 


BERMED  BAETON. 

[1784- 1849.] 

NOT  OURS  THE  VOWS. 

Not  ours  tlie  vows  of  such  as  plight 
Their  troth  in  sunny  weather, 

While  leaves  are   green,  and   skies  are 
bright. 
To  walk  on  flowers  together. 

But  we  have  loved  as  those  who  tread 

The  thorny  path  of  sorrow. 
With  clouds  above,  and  cause  to  dread 

Yet  deeper  gloom  to-morrow. 

That  thorny  path,  those  stormy  skies, 
Have  drawn  our  spirits  nearer  ; 

And  rendered  us,  by  sorrow's  ties, 
Each  to  the  other  dearer. 

Love,  born  in  hours  of  joy  and  mirth. 
With  mirth  and  joy  may  jierish  ; 

That  to  which  darker  houi's  gave  birth 
Still  more  and  more  we  cherish. 

It  looks  beyond  the  clouds  of  time, 
And  through  death's  shadowy  portal ; 

Made  by  adversity  sublime, 
By  faith  and  hope  immortal. 


LEIGH  HUNT. 

[1784-1859.] 

AN  ANGEL  IN  THE  HOUSE. 

How  sweet  it  were,  if  without  feeble 

fright, 
Or  dying  of  the  dreadful  beauteous  sight. 
An  angel  came  to  us,  and  we  could  bear 
To  see  him  issue  from  the  silent  air 
At  evening  in  our  room,  and  bend  on  ours 
His  divine  eyes,  and  bring  us  from  his 

bovvers 
News  of  dear  fiiends,  and  children  who 

have  never 
Been  dead  indeed, — as  we  shall   know 

forever. 
Alas  !  we  think  not  what  we  daily  see 
About   our   lieartlis,  angels,  that  are  to 

be. 


Or  may  be  if  they  will,  and  we  prepare 
Their  souls  and  ours  to  meet  in  happy 

air,  — 
A  child,  a  friend,  a  wife  whose  soft  heart 

sings 
In  unison  with  ours,  breeding  its  future 

wings. 


ABOU  BEN  ADHEM  AND  THE  ANGEL. 

Abou  Ben   Adiiem  (may  his  tribe  in- 
crease ! ) 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of 

peace. 
And   saw   within  the  moonlight  in  his 

room, 
Making  it  rich,  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom, 
An  angel,  writing  in  a  book  of  gold  ; 
Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhera 

bold. 
And  to  the  presence  in  tlie  room  he  said, 
"What  writest  thou ? "  The  vision  raised 

its  head. 
And  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord, 
Answered,  ' '  The  names  of  those  who  love 

the  Lord." 
"And  is  mine  one?"  said  Abou.     "Nay, 

not  so," 
Replied  the  angel.    Abou  spoke  more  low, 
But  cheerly  still ;  and  said,  "I  pray  thee, 

then, 
Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow- 
men." 
The  angel  wrote  and  vanished.     The 

next  night 
It  came  again,  with  a  great  wakening 

light. 
And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of  God 

had  blessed. 
And,  lo  !  Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all  the 

rest. 


ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM. 

[1785-1842.] 

A  WET  SHEET  AND  A  FLOWING  SEA. 

A  WET  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 

A  wind  that  follows  fast, 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail, 

And  bends  the  gallant;  mast, — 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

While,  like  the  eagle  free. 


ALLAN   CUNNINGHAM. 


145 


Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 
Old  England  on  our  lee. 

0  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind ! 

I  heard  a  fair  one  cry  ; 
But  give  to  me  tlie  swelling  breeze, 

And  white  waves  heaving  high, — 
The  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  lads, 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free ; 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  meny  men  are  we. 


THOU  HAST  SWORN  BY  THY  GOD. 

Thou  hast  sworn  by  thy  God,  my  Jeanie, 

By  that  pretty  white  hand  o'  thine. 
And  by  a'  the  lowing  stars  in  heaven, 

That  thou  wad  aye  be  mine ; 
And  I  liae  sworn  by  my  God,  my  Jeanie, 

And  by  that  kind  heart  o'  thine, 
By  a'  the  stars  sown  thick  owre  heaven. 

That  thou  shalt  aye  be  mine. 

Then  foul  fa'  the  hands  that  wad  loose 
sic  bands. 

An'  the  heart  that  wad  part  sic  luve ; 
But  there 's  nae  hand  can  loose  my  band, 

But  the  finger  o'  God  abuve. 
Though  the  wee,  wee  cot  maun  be  my  bield. 

And  m}^  claithing  e'er  so  mean, 
I  wad  lap  me  up  rich  i'  the  faulds  o'  luve, 

Heaven's  armfu'  o'  my  Jean. 

Her  white  arm  wad  be  a  pillow  for  me 

Far  safter  than  the  down  ; 
And  Luve  wad  winnow  owre  us  his  kind, 
kind  wings, 

An'  sweetly  I  'd  sleep,  an'  soun'. 
Come  here  to  me,  thou  lass  o'  my  luve. 

Come  here,  and  kneel  wi'  me  ! 
The  morn  is  fu'  o'  the  presence  o'  God, 

An'  I  canna  pray  without  thee. 

The  morn-\vind  is  sweet  'mang  the  beds 
o'  new  flowers. 
The  wee  birds  sing  kindlie  an'  hie ; 
Our  gudeman  leans  owre  his  kale-yard 
dyke. 
And  a  blythe  auld  bodie  is  he. 
The  Beuk  maun  be  taen  when  the  carle 
comes  hame, 
Wi'  the  holie  psalmodie ; 
10 


And  thou  maun  speak  o'  me  to  thy  God, 
And  I  will  speak  o'  thee. 


SHE  'S  GAKE  TO  DWALL  IN  HEAVEN. 

She  's  gane  to  dwall  in  heaven,  my  lassie, 
She  's  gane  to  dwall  in  heaven  : 

Ye  're  owre  pure,  quo'  the  voice  o'  God, 
For  dwalling  out  o'  heaven ! 

0,  what  '11  she  do  in  heaven,  my  lassie? 

0,  what  '11  she  do  in  heaven? 
She  '11  mix  her  ain  thoughts  wi'  angels' 
^  sangs, 

An'  make  them  niair  meet  for  heaven. 


She  was  beloved  by  a',  my  lassie, 
She  was  beloved  by  a' ;' 

But  an  angel  fell  in  love  wi'  her, 
An'  took  her  frae  us  a'. 


Low  there  thou  lies,  my  lassie. 

Low  there  thou  lies ; 
A  bonnier  form  ne'er  went  to  the  yird, 

Nor  frae  it  will  arise  ! 


Fu'  soon  I  '11  follow  thee,  my  lassie, 

Fu'  soon  I  '11  follow  thee ; 
Thou  left  me  naught  to  covet  ahin', 

But  took  gudeness  sel'  wi'  thee. 

I  looked  on  thy  death-cold  face,  my  lassie, 
I  looked  on  thy  death-cold  face  ; 

Thou  seenied  a  lily  new  cut  i'  the  bud. 
An'  fading  in  its  j^lace. 

I  looked  on  thy  death-shut  e}^e,  my  lassie, 
I  looked  on  thy  death-shut  eye  ; 

An'  a  lovelier  light  in  the  brow  of  heaven 
Fell  time  shall  ne'er  destroy. 

Thy  lips  were  ruddy  and  calm,  my  lassie, 
Thy  lips  were  ruddy  and  calm  ; 

But  gane  was  the  holy  breath  o'  heaven. 
To  sing  the  evening  psalm. 

There's  naught  but  dust  now  mine,  lassie, 
There  's  naught  but  dust  now  mine; 

My  saul  's  wi'  thee  i'  the  cauld  grave. 
An'  why  should  I  stay  behin' « 


146 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


JOHN  WILSON. 

[1785-1854-] 

THE  EVENING  CLOUD. 

A  CLOUD  lay  cradled  near  the  setting  snn, 
A  gleam  of  crimson  tinged  its  braided 

snow : 
Long  had  1  watched  the  glory  moving  on 
O'er  the  still  radiance  of  the  lake  below. 
Tranquil  its  spirit   seemed,  and   lioated 

slow ! 
Even  in  its  very  motion  there  was  rest ; 
While  every  breath  of  eve  that  chanced 

to  blow 
Wafted  the  traveller  to  the  beauteous  west. 
Emblem,  methought,  of  the  departed  soul, 
To  whose  white  robe  the  gleam  of  bliss  is 

given ; 
And  by  the  breath  of  mercy  made  to  roll 
Eight   onwards  to  the  golden   gates   of 

heaven, 
Where  to  the  eye  of  faith  it  peaceful  lies, 
And  tells  to  man  his  glorious  destinies. 


SIR  JOHN  BOWRINa. 

[1792 .] 

FROM  THE  RECESSES. 

From  the  recesses  of  a  lowly  spirit 

My  humble  prayer  ascends :  0  Father ! 

hear  it. 
Upsoaring  on  the  wings  of  fear  and  meek- 
ness. 
Forgive  its  weakness. 

I  know,  I  feel,  how  mean  and  how  un- 
worthy 
The  trembling  sacrifice  I  pour  before  thee  ; 
What  can  1  offer  in  thy  presence  holy, 
But  sin  and  folly  ? 


We  see  thy  hand,  — it  leads  us,  it  sup- 

])orts  us ; 
We  hear  thy  voice, — it  counsels  and  it 

courts  us ; 
And  then  we  turn  away, — and  still  thy 

kindness 
Forgives  our  blindness. 

And  still  thy  rain  descends,  thy  sun  is 
glowing, 

Fruits  ripen  round,  flowers  are  beneath 
us  blowing, 

And,  as  if  man  were  some  deserving  crea- 
ture, 
Joy  covers  nature. 

0,  how  long-suffering.  Lord!    but   thou 

delightest 
To  win  with  love  the  wandering;  thou 

invitest, 
By  smiles   of  mercy,  not  by  frowns  or 

terrors, 
Man  from  his  errors. 

Who  can  resist  thy  gentle  call,  appeal- 
ing 

To  every  generous  thought  and  grateful 
feeling,  — 

That  voice  paternal,  whispering,  watch- 
ing ever,  — 
My  bosom? — never. 

Father  and  Saviour!   plant  Avithin  this 

bosom 
The    seeds   of  holiness ;   and  bid  them 

blossom 
In  fragrance  and  in  beauty  bright  and 

vernal, 
And  spring  eternal ! 

Then  place   them   in   those   everlasting 

gardens. 
Where  angels  walk,  and  seraphs  are  the 

wardens; 
Where  every  flower  that  climbs  through 

death's  dark  portal 
Becomes  immortal. 


For  in  thy  sight,  who  every  bosom  view- 

cst. 
Cold  are  our  warmest  vows,  and  vain  our 

truest ; 
Thoughts  of  a  hurrying  liour,  our  lips 

repeat  them. 
Our  hearts  forget  them. 


HYMN. 

Fatiter,  thy  paternal  care 

Has  my  guardian  been,  my  guide. 
Every  hallowed  wish  and  ]U'ay(n' 

Has  thy  hand  of  love  supplied. 
Thine  is  every  thought  of  bliss 

Left  by  hours  and  days  gone  by ; 


SAMUEL  WOODAVORTH.  —  ANDREWS   NORTON. 


147 


Every  hope  thy  offspring  is, 
Beaming  from  futurity. 

Every  sun  of  splendid  ray, 

Every  moon  that  shines  serene, 
Eveiy  morn  that  welcomes  day, 

Every  evening's  twilight  scene. 
Every  hour  that  wisdom  brings, 

Every  incense  at  thy  shrine, — 
These,  and  all  life's  holiest  things, 

And  its  fairest,  all  are  thine. 

And  for  all,  my  hymns  shall  rise 

Daily  to  thy  gracious  throne ; 
Thither  let  my  asking  eyes 

Turn  unwearied,  righteous  One ! 
Through  life's  strange  vicissitude, 

There  rei)osing  all  my  care ; 
Trusting  still,  through  ill  and  good, 

Fixed,   and   cheered,    and   counselled 
there. 


SAMUEL  WOODWORTH. 

[U.  S.  A.,  1785'    1S42.] 

THE  BUCKET. 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of 

my  childhood, 
"When  fond  recollection  presents  them 

to  view ! 
The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep-tangled 

wildwood, 
And  every  loved  spot  which  mj' infancy 

knew !  — 
The  wide-spreading  pond,  and  the  mill 

that  stood  hy  it, 
The  bridge,  and  the  rock   where   the 

cataract  fell, 
The   cot  of  my  father,  the   dairy-house 

nigh  it, 
And  e'en  the  rude  bucket  that  hung 

in  the  well,  — 
The   old   oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound 

bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket,  which  hung  in 

the  well. 

That  moss-covered  vessel  I  hailed  as  a 
treasure ; 
For  often  at  noon,  when  returned  from 
the  field, 


I  found  it  the   source   of  an   exquisite 

pleasure, 
The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature 

can  yield. 
How  ardent  1  seized  it,  with  hands  that 

were  glowing, 
And  quick  to  the  white-pebbled  bottom 

it  fell ; 
Then  soon,  with  the  emblem  of  truth  over- 
flowing, 
And   dripping   with  coolness,  it   rose 

from  the  well,  — 
The   old   oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound 

bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket,  arose  from  the 

well. 

How  sweet  from  the  green,  mossy  brim 

to  receive  it, 
As,  poised  on  the  curb,  it  inclined  to 

my  lips ! 
Not  a  full,  blusliing  goblet  could  tempt 

me  to  leave  it, 
Though   tilled  with   the   nectar  that 

Juj)iter  sips. 
And  now,  far  removed  from   the   loved 

habitation, 
The  tears   of  regi-et   will   intrusively 

swell, 
As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  planta- 
tion, 
And  sighs  for  the  bucket  that  hangs 

in  the  well, — 
The   old  oaken  bucket,  the   iron-bound 

bucket. 
The  moss-covered  bucket,  that  hangs  in 

the  well. 


ANDREWS  NORTON. 

[U.  S.  A.,  17S6-  1853.] 

AFTER  A  SUMMER  SHOWER. 

The  rain  is  o'er.     How  dense  and  bright 
Yon  pearly  clouds  reposing  lie  ! 

Cloud  above  cloud,  a  glorious  sight, 
Contrasting  with  the  dark  blue  sky ! 

In  grateful  silence  earth  receives 

The  general  blessing;  fresh  and  fair, 

Each  flower  expands  its  little  leaves, 
As  glad  the  conunon  joy  to  share. 

The  softened  sunbeams  pour  around 
A  fairy  light,  uncertain,  pale ; 


148 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTUEIES. 


The  wind  flows  cool ;  tlie  scented  ground 
Is  breathing  odors  on  the  gale. 

]\Iid  yon  rich  clouds'  voluptuous  pile, 
Methinks  some  spirit  of  the  air 

Mi"ht  rest,  to  gaze  below  awhi  e, 
Then  turn  to  bathe  and  revel  there. 

The  sun  breaks  forth ;  from  off  the  scene 
Its  floating  veil  of  mist  is  flung; 

And  all  the  wilderness  of  green 

With  trembling  drops  of  light  is  hung. 

Now  gaze  on  Nature,— yet  the  same,— 
Glowing  with  life,  by  breezes  fanned. 

Luxuriant,  lovely,  as  she  came, 
Freshinheryouth,fromGod  sown  hand. 

Hear  the  rich  music  of  that  voice, 
Which  sounds  from  all  below,  above ; 

She  calls  her  children  to  rejoice, 

Androundthemthrowsherarmsotlove. 

Drink  in  her  influence ;  low-born  care, 
And  all  the  train  of  mean  desire, 

Refus(;  to  breathe  this  holy  air,  _ 
And  mid  this  living  light  expire. 


CAEOLINE  BOWLES  SOUTHEY. 

[1787-1854.] 

MARINER'S  HYMN. 

Launch  thy  bark,  mariner ! 

Christian,  God  speed  thee! 
Let  loose  the  rudder-bands,  — 

Good  angels  lead  thee ! 
Set  thy  sails  warily, 

Tempests  will  come ; 
Steer  thy  course  steadily : 

Christian,  steer  home ! 

Look  to  the  weather-bow. 

Breakers  are  round  thee ; 
Let  fall  the  plummet  now, 

Shallows  may  ground  thee. 
Reef  in  the  foresail,  there  ! 

Hold  the  h(dm  fast ! 
So — let  the  vessel  wear — 

There  swept  the  blast. 

"What  of  the  night,  watchman? 

What  of  the  night?" 
"Cloudy— all  quiet  — 

No  land  yet— all 's  right. 


Be  wakeful,  be  vigilant,  — 

Danger  may  be 
At  an  hour  when  all  seemeth 

Securest  to  thee. 

How  !  gains  the  leak  so  fast? 

Clean  out  the  hold,  — 
Hoist  up  thy  merchandise. 

Heave  out  thy  gold ; 
There— let  the  ingots  go— 

Now  the  ship  rights ; 
Hurrah  !  the  harbor  's  near— 

Lo  !  the  red  lights  ! 

Slacken  not  sail  yet 

At  inlet  or  island ; 
Straight  for  the  beacon  steer, 

Stiaight  for  the  high  land ; 
Crowd  all  thy  canvas  on. 

Cut  through  the  foam  : 
Christian  !  cast  anchor  now,  - 

Heaven  is  thy  home  ! 


LAVINIA  STODDARD. 

[U.    S.    A.,    1787- 1820.] 

THE  SOUL'S  DEFIANCE. 

I  SATD  to  Sorrow's  awful  storm 

That  beat  against  my  breast, 
j^age  on,  —  thou  mayst  destroy  this  form, 

And  lav  it  low  at  rest ; 
But  still  the  spirit  that  now  brooks 

Thy  tempest,  raging  high, 
Undaunted  on  its  fury  looks, 

With  steadfast  eye. 

I  said  to  Penury's  meagre  train. 

Come  on,  —your  threats  I  brave; 
My  last  poor  life-drop  you  may  drain, 

And  crush  me  to  the  grave ; 
Yet  still  the  spirit  that  endures 

Shall  mock  your  force  the  while, 
And  meet  each  cold,  cold  grasp  of  yours 

With  bitter  smile. 

1  said  to  cold  Neglect  and  Scorn, 

Pass  on,  —  I  heed  you  not ; 
Ye  may  pursue  me  till  my  form 

And  being  are  forgot ; 
Yet  still  tlie  spirit,  which  you  see 

Undaunted  by  your  wiles. 
Draws  from  its  own  nobility 

Its  highborn  smiles. 


WILLIAM   KNOX. 


149 


I  said  to  Friendship's  menaced  blow, 

Strike  deep, — my  heart  shall  bear; 
Thou  eanst  but  add  one  bitter  woe 

To  those  already  there  ; 
Yet  still  the  spirit  that  sustains 

This  last  severe  distress 
Shall  snule  upon  its  keenest  pains, 

And  scorn  redress. 

I  said  to  Death's  uplifted  dart. 

Aim  sure,  — 0,  why  delay? 
Thou  wilt  not  find  a  tearful  heart, 

A  weak,  reluctant  prey ; 
For  still  the  spirit,  firm  and  free. 

Unruffled  by  this  last  dismay, 
Wrapt  in  its  own  eternity. 

Shall  pass  away. 


WILLIAM  KNOX. 

[17S9-1S2S.] 

O,  WHY  SHOULD  THE    SPIRIT    OF 
MORTAL  BE  PROUD? 

0,  AVHY  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be 

proud  ? 
Like  a  fast-flitting  meteor,  a  fast-flying 

cloud, 
A  flash  of  the  lightning,  a  break  of  the 

wave. 
He  passeth  from  life  to  his  rest  in  the 

grave. 

The  leaves  of  the  oak  and  the  ■willow 

shall  fade. 
Be  scattered  around  and  together  be  laid ; 
And  the  young  and  the  old,  and  the  low 

and  the  high, 
Shall  moulder  to  dust  and  together  shall 

lie. 

The  child  that  a  mother  attended  and 

loved, 
The  mother  that  infant's  affection  who 

proved, 
The  husband  that  mother  and  infant  who 

blessed, — 
Each,  all,  are  away  to  their  dwellings  of 

rest. 

The  maid  on  whose  cheek,  on  whose 
brow,  in  whose  eye. 

Shone  beauty  and  pleasure,  —  her  tri- 
umphs are  by ; 


And  the  memory  of  those  who  have  loved 

her  and  praised, 
Are  alike  from  the  minds  of  the  living 

erased. 

The  hand  of  the  king  that  the  sceptre 

hath  borne. 
The  brow  of  the  priest  that  the  mitre 

hath  worn. 
The  eye  of  the  sage,  and  the  heart  of  the 

brave, 
Are  hidden  and  lost  in  the  depths  of  the 

grave. 

The  peasant  whose  lot  was  to  sow  and  to 

reap, 
The  herdsman   who   climbed   with  his 

goats  to  the  steep. 
The  beggar  who  wandered  in  search  of 

his  bread, 
Have  faded  away  like  the  grass  that  we 

tread. 

The  saint  who  enjoyed  the  communion 

of  heaven. 
The  sinner  who  dared  to  remain  unfor- 

given, 
The  wise  and  the  foolish,  the  guilty  and 

just, 
Have  quietly  mingled  their  bones  in  the 

dust. 

So  the  multitude  goes,  like   the   flower 

and  the  weed. 
That  wither  away  to  let  others  succeed  ; 
So  the  multitude  comes,  even  those  we 

behold. 
To  repeat  every  tale  that  hath  often  been 

told. 

For  we  are  the  same  things  our  fathers 

have  been ; 
We  see  the  same  sights  that  our  fathers 

have  seen,  — 
We  drink  the  same  stream,  and  we  fee] 

the  same  sun. 
And  run  the  same  course  that  our  fathers 

have  run. 

The  thoughts  we  are  thinking  our  fathers 

would  think ; 
From  the  death  we  are  shrinking  from^ 

they  too  would  shrink ; 
To  the  life  we  are  clinging  to,  they  too 

would  cling; 
But  it  speeds  from  the  earth  like  a  bird 

on  the  wing. 


150 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


They  loved,  but  their  story  we  cannot 
unfold ; 

They  scorned,  but  the  heart  of  the  haughty 
is  cokl ; 

Tliey  grieved,  but  no  wail  from  their 
slumbers  will  come ; 

They  joyed,  but  the  voice  of  their  glad- 
ness is  dumb. 

They  died,  —  ay !  they  died ;  and  we  things 
that  are  now, 

Who  walk  on  the  turf  that  lies  over  their 
brow. 

Who  make  in  their  dwellings  a  transient 
abode, 

Meet  the  changes  they  met  on  their  pil- 
grimage road. 

Yea,  hope  and  despondence,  and  pleasure 

and  pain. 
Are  mingled  together  in  sunshine  and 

rain  ; 
And  the  smile  and  the  tear,  the  song  and 

the  dirge, 
Still  follow  each  other,  like  surge  upon 

surge. 

'T  is  the  twink  of  an  eye,  't  is  the  draught 
of  a  breath. 

From  the  blossom  of  health  to  the  pale- 
ness of  death. 

From  the  gilded  saloon  to  the  bier  and 
the  shroud,  — 

0,  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be 
proud  ? 


EICHAPtD  H.  BAPiHAM. 

[17S8-1845.] 

THE  JACKDAW  OF  RHEIMS. 

The  Jackdaw  sat  on  the  Cardinal's  chair ; 
Bishop  and  abbot  and  jirior  were  there; 

Many  a  monk  and  many  a  friar, 

Many  a  knight  and  many  a  sipiire. 
With  agreat  many  moreof  lesser  degree,  — 
In  sootii,  a  goodly  com])any  ; 
And  they  served  the  Lord    Primate  on 
bended  knee. 

Never,  I  ween. 

Was  a  prouder  seen, 
Read  of  in  books  or  dreamt  of  in  dreams, 
Than  the  Cardinal  Lord  Archbishop  of 
llheims  * 


In  and  out, 

Througii  the  motley  rout, 
The  little  Jackdaw  kept  hopping  about; 

Here  and  there. 

Like  a  dog  in  a  fair, 

Over  comtits  and  cates 

And  dishes  and  plates, 
Cowl  and  cope  and  rochet  and  pall, 
Mitre  and  crosier,  he  hopped  upon  all. 

With  a  saucy  air 

He  perched  on  the  chair 
Where,  in  state,  the  great  Lord  Cardinal 

sat, 
In  the  great  Lord  Cardinal's  great  red 
hat; 

And  he  peered  in  the  face 

Of  his  Lordship's  Grace, 
AVith  a  satisfied  look,  as  if  to  say, 
"We  two  are  the  greatest  folks  here  to- 
day!" 

And  the  priests  with  awe. 

As  such  freaks  they  saw, 
Said,  "The  Devil  must  be  in  that  little 
Jackdaw !" 

The  feast  was  over,  the  board  was  cleared, 
The  flawns  and  the  custards  had  all  dis- 
appeared. 
And  six  little  singing-boys,  —  dear  little 

souls !  — 
In  nice  clean  faces  and  nice  white  stoles, 
Came,  in  order  due, 
Two  by  two. 
Marching  that  grand  refectoiy  through  ! 
A  nice  little  boy  held  a  golden  ewer, 
Embossed,  and  filled  with  water,  as  pure 
As  any  that  flows  between  Rheims  and 

Namur, 
Which  a  nice  little  boy  stood  ready  to 

catch 
In  afine golden  hand-basin  made  tomatch. 
Two  nice  little  boys,  rather  more  grown, 
Poured   lavender-water   and   eau-de-Co- 
logne ; 
Andanice  little  boy  hadanice  cake  of  soap 
Worthyof  washingthehands  of  the  Pope ! 
One  little  boy  more 
A  napkin  bore 
Of  the  best  white  diaper  fringed  with  pink. 
And  a  cardinal's  hat  marked  in  perma- 
nent ink. 

ThegreatLord  Cardinal  turns  at  the  sight 
Of  these  nice  little  boys  dressed  all  iu 
white ; 

From  his  finger  lie  draws 

His  costly  turquoise : 


EICHAED   H.   BAEHAM. 


151 


And,  not  thinking  at  all  about  little  Jack- 
daws, 
Deposits  it  straight 
By  the  side  of  his  plate, 

While  the  nice  little  boys  on  his  Emi- 
nence wait; 

Till,  when   nobody 's   dreaming   of  any 
such  thing, 

That  little  Jackdaw  hops  otl'  with  the 
ring! 

There 's  a  cry  and  a  shout, 
And  a  deuce  of  a  rout, 
And  nobody  seems  to  know  what  they  're 

about. 
But  the  monks  have  their   pockets  all 
turned  inside  out ; 
The  friars  are  kneeling. 
And  hunting  and  feeling 
The  carpet,  the  iloor,  and  the  walls,  and 
the  ceiling. 
The  Cardinal  drew 
Off  each  plum-colored  shoe, 
And  left  his  red  stockings  exposed  to  the 
view ; 
He  jieeps,  and  he  feels 
In  the  toes  and  the  heels. 
They  turn  up  the  dishes,  — they  turn  up 

the  plates,  — 
They  take  up  the  poker  and  poke  out  the 
grates,  — 
They  turn  up  the  rugs. 
They  examine  the  mugs; 
But,  no  !  —  no  such  thing,  — 
They  can't  find  the  king  ! 
And   the   Abbot   declared  that   "when 

nobody  twigged  it, 
Some  rascal  or  other  had  popped  in  and 
prigged  it ! " 

The  Cardinal  rose  with  a  dignified  look, 
He  called  for  his  candle,  his  bell,  and  his 

book! 
In  holy  anger  and  pious  grief 
He  solemnly  cursed  that  rascallj'  thief! 
He  cursed  him  at  board,  he  cursed  him 

in  bed ; 
From  the  sole  of  his  foot  to  the  crown 

of  his  head ; 
He  cursed  him  in  sleeping,  that  every 

night 
He  should  dream  of  the  Devil,   and 

wake  in  a  fright. 
He   cursed   him  in  eating,  he   cui'sed 

him  in  drinking. 
He  cursed  him  in  coughing,  in  sneez- 
ing, in  winking ; 


He  cursed  him  in  sitting,  in  standing, 

in  lying; 
He  cursed  him  in  walking,  in  riding, 

in  flying; 
He  cursed  him  living,  he  cursed  him 
dying!  — 
Never  was  heard  such  a  terrible  curse ! 
But  what  gave  rise 
To  no  little  surprise, 
Nobody  seemed  one  penny  the  worse ! 

The  day  was  gone. 
The  night  came  on. 
The  monks  and  the  friars  they  searched 
till  dawn; 
When  the  sacristan  saw. 
On  crumpled  claw. 
Come  limping  a  poor  little  lame  Jackdaw ! 
No  longer  gay. 
As  on  yesterday ; 
His  feiithers  all  .seemed  to  be  turned  the 

wrong  way ;  — 
His  pinions  drooi)ed, — he  could  hardly 

stand,  — 
His  head  was  as  bald  as  the  palm  of  j'our 
hand ; 
His  eye  so  dim, 
So  wasted  each  limb. 
That,  heedless  of  grammar,  they  all  cried, 

"That  's  him! 
That 's  the  scamp  that   has   done   this 

scandalous  thing. 
That 's  the  thief  that  has  got  my  Lord 
Cardinal's  rixg  !" 
The  poor  little  Jackdaw, 
When  the  monks  he  saw. 
Feebly  gave  vent  to  the  gliost  of  a  caw ; 
And  turned  his  bald  head  as  much  as  to 

say, 
"Pray  be  so  good  as  to  walk  this  way ! " 
Slower  and  .slower 
He  limped  on  before. 
Till  they  came  to  the  back  of  the  belfry 
door, 
Where  the  first  thing  they  saw. 
Midst  the  sticks  and  the  straw. 
Was  the  iung  in  the  nest  of  that  little 
Jackdaw  ! 

Then  the  great  Lord  Cardinal  called  for 

his  book, 
And  off  that  terrible  curse  he  took  ; 
The  mute  expression 
Served  in  lieu  of  confession, 
And,  being  thus  coupled  with  full  resti- 
tution. 
The  Jackdaw  got  plenary  absolution ! 


152 


SONGS   OF  THEEE   CENTUEIES. 


When  those  words  were  heard 
That  poor  little  bird 
Was   so   chuiif^ed   in   a   moment,  't  was 
really  absurd : 
He  grew  sleek  and  fat ; 
In  addition  to  that, 
A  fresh  crop  of  feathers  came  thick  as  a 
mat ! 
His  tail  waggled  more 
Even  than  before ; 
But  no  longer  it  wagged  with  an  impu- 
dent air, 
No  longer  he  perched  on  the  Cardinal's 
chair. 
He  hopped  now  about 
With  a  gait  devout; 
At  matins,  at  vespers,  he  never  was  out; 
And,  so  far  from  any  more  pilfering  deeds. 
He  always  seemed  telling  the  Confessor's 

beads. 
If  any  one  lied,  or  if  any  one  swore, 
Or  slumbered  in  prayer-time   and   hap- 
pened to  snore. 
That  good  Jackdaw 
Would  give  a  great  "Caw  !" 
As  much  as  to  say,   "Don't  do  so  any 

more !" 
While   many  remarked,  as  his  manners 

they  saw. 
That  they  "never  had   known   such   a 
pious  Jackdaw !" 
He  long  lived  the  pride 
Of  that  country  side, 
And  at  last  in  the  odor  of  sanctity  died ; 
When,  as  words  were  too  faint 
His  merits  to  paint. 
The  Conclave  determined  to  make  him  a 

Saint. 
And  on  newly  made  Saints  and  Popes, 

as  you  know. 
It  's  the  custom  at  Rome  new  names  to 

bestow. 
So  they  canonized  him  by  the  name  of 
Jem  Crow ! 


RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE. 

[U.  S.  A.,  1789-1847.] 

MY  LIFE  IS  LIKE  THE  SUMMER  ROSE. 

My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose 
That  opens  to  the  morning  sk}'-, 

But  ere  the  shades  of  evening  close 
Is  scattered  on  the  ground — to  die. 


Yet  on  the  rose's  humble  bed 
The  sweetest  dews  of  night  are  she(^ 
As  if  she  wept  the  waste  to  see,  — 
But  none  shall  weep  a  tear  for  me ! 

My  life  is  like  the  autumn  leaf. 

That  trembles  in  the  moon's  pale  ray ; 
Its  hold  is  frail,  its  date  is  brief; 

Restless,  and  soon  to  ]>ass  away ! 
Yet,  ere  that  leaf  shall  fall  and  fade, 
Tlie  parent  tree  will  mourn  its  shade, 
The  winds  bewail  the  leaHess  tree, — 
But  none  shall  breathe  a  sigh  for  me ! 

My  life  is  like  the  prints  which  feet 
Have  left  on  Tampa's  desert  strand ; 

Soon  as  the  rising  tide  shall  beat. 
All  trace  will  vanish  from  the  sand; 

Yet,  as  if  grieving  to  efface 

All  vestige  of  the  human  race. 

On  that  lone  shore  loud  moans  the  sea,  — 

But  none,  alas !  shall  mourn  for  me ! 


CHARLES  WOLFE. 

[1791-1823.] 

THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE. 

Not  a  drvim  was  heai'd,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampai't  we  hurried ; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buiied  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night. 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning; 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam  s' m  isty  light, 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast. 
Nor  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound 
him ; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said. 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sori'ow ; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that 
was  dead, 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  themorrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow 
be'd. 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 


JOHN   HOWAED   PAYNE.  —  FELICIA   HEMANS. 


153 


That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  woukl  tread 
o'er  his  head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow ! 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that 's 

gone, 

And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him,  — 

But  little  he  '11  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep 

on 

In  thegi'ave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  onr  heavy  task  was  done, 
When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for 
retiring ; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 
From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and 
gory ; 
We  carved  not  a  line,  we  raised  not  a 
stone,  — 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 


JOHN  HOWARD  PAYNE. 

[U.    S.    A.,    1792-1852.] 

SWEET  HOME. 

Mid  pleasures   and   palaces  though  we 

may  roam. 
Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there  's  no  place 

like  home ! 
A  charm  from  the  skies  seems  to  hallow 

us  lie  re, 
"WTiich,  seek  through  the  world,  is  ne'er 

met  M'ith  elsewhere. 
Home,  home,  sweet  home  ! 
There  's  no  place  like  home ! 

An  exile  from  home,  splendor  dazzles  in 

vain ! 
0,  give  me   my  lowly  thatched  cottage 

again  ! 
The  birds  singing  gayly  that  came  at  my 

call;  — 
0,  give  me  sweet  peace  of  mind,  dearer 

than  all ! 
Home,  home,  sweet  home  ! 
There  's  no  place  like  home ! 


FELICIA  HEMANS. 

[1794-1835.] 

THE  CHILDE'S  DESTINY. 

No  mistress  of  the  hidden  skill, 

No  wizard  gaunt  and  grim, 
Went  up  by  night  to  heath  or  hill 

To  read  the  stars  for  him  ; 
The  merriest  girl  in  all  the  land 

Of  vine-encircled  France 
Bestowed  upon  his  brow  and  hand 

Her  ])hilosophic  glance. 
"I  bind  thee  with  a  spell,"  said  she, 

' '  I  sign  thee  with  a  sign  ; 
No  woman's  love  shall  liglit  on  thee, 

No  woman's  heart  be  thine  ! 

"And  trust  me,  't  is  not  that  thy  cheek 

Is  colorless  and  cold, 
Xor  that  thine  eye  is  slow  to  speak 

What  only  eyes  have  told  ; 
For  many  a  cheek  of  paler  white 

Hath  blushed  with  passion's  kiss, 
And  manj'  an  eye  of  lesser  light 

Hath  caught  its  fire  from  bliss : 
Yet  while  the  rivers  seek  the  sea, 

And  while  the  young  stars  shine, 
No  woman's  love  shall  light  on  thee. 

No  woman's  heart  be  thine ! 

"  And  't  is  not  that  thy  spirit,  awed 

By  beauty's  numbing  spell, 
Shrinks  from  the  force  or  from  the  fraud 

Which  beauty  loves  so  well ; 
For    thou    hast    learned    to  watch  and 
wake, 

And  swear  by  earth  and  sky, 
And  thou  art  very  bold  to  take 

What  we  must  still  deny : 
I  cannot  tell ;  the  charm  was  wrought 

By  other  thieads  than  mine ; 
The  lips  are  lightly  begged  or  bought. 

The  heart  may  not  be  thine ! 

"Yet  thine  the  brightest  smile  shall  be 

That  ever  beauty  wore. 
And  confidence  from  two  or  three, 

And  compliments  from  more  ; 
And  one  shall  give,  perchance  hath  given, 

What  only  is  not  love,  ■ — 
Friendship,  0,  such  as  saints  in  heaven 

Rain  on  us  from  above. 
If  she  shall  meet  thee  in  the  bower, 

Or  name  thee  in  the  shrine, 


154 


SONGS    OF   THKEE   CENTUEIES. 


0,  wear   the   ring,  and  guard  the  flow- 
er,— 
Her  heart  may  not  be  thine !    - 

"Go,  set  thy  boat  before  the  blast, 

Thy  breast  before  the  gun,  — 
The  haven  shall  be  reached  at  last, 

The  battle  shall  be  won  ; 
Or  muse  upon  thy  country's  laws, 

Or  strike  thy  country's  lute. 
And  patriot  hands  shall  sound  applause, 

And  lovely  lips  be  mute  : 
Go,  dig  the  diamond  from  the  wave, 

The  treasure  from  the  mine, 
Enjoy  the  wieath,  the  gold,  the  grave, — 

No  woman's  heart  is  thine  1 

"I  charm  thee  from  the  agony 

Which  others  feel  or  feign. 
From  anger  and  from  jealousy, 

From  doubt  and  from  disdain  ; 
I  bid  thee  wear  the  scorn  of  years 

Upon  the  cheek  of  youth. 
And  curl  the  lip  at  passion's  tears. 

And  shake  the  head  at  truth  : 
While  there  is  bliss  in  revelry, 

Forgetfulness  in  wine, 
Be  thou  from  woman's  love  as  free 

As  woman  is  from  thine ! " 


KINDRED  HEARTS. 

0,  ARK  not,  hope  thou  not,  too  much 

Of  sym]iathy  below ; 
Few  are  the  hearts  whence  one  same  touch 

Bids  the  sweet  fountains  flow  : 
Few  —  and  by  still  conflicting  powers 

Forbidden  here  to  meet — • 
Such  ties  would  make  this  life  of  ours 

Too  fciir  for  aught  so  fleet. 

It  may  be  that  thy  brother's  eye 

Sees  not  as  thine,  which  turns 
In  such  deep  reverence  to  the  sky 

Where  the  rich  sunset  burns ; 
It  may  be  that  the  breath  of  spring, 

Born  amidst  violets  lone, 
A  rajitun;  o'er  thy  soul  can  bring, — 

A  dream,  to  his  unknown. 

The  tune  that  s])eaks  of  other  times, — 

A  sorrowful  delight ! 
The  melody  of  distant  chimes. 

The  sound  of  waves  by  niglit ; 
Thi^  wind  tliat,  willi  so  many  a  tone. 

Some  chord  within  can  thrill,  — 


These  may  have  language  all  thine  own, 
To  him  a  mystery  still. 

Yet  scorn  thoTi  not  for  this  the  true 

And  steadfast  love  of  years  ; 
The  kindlv,  that  from  childhood  grew, 

The  faithful  to  thy  tears  ! 
If  there  be  one  that  o'er  the  dead 

Hath  in  thy  grief  borne  part, 
And  watched  through  sickness  by  thy 
bed. 

Call  Ids  a  kindred  heart ! 

But  for  those  bonds  all  perfect  made, 

Wherein  bright  spirits  blend. 
Like  sister  flowers  of  one  sweet  shade 

With  the  same  breeze  that  bend. 
For  that  full  bliss  of  thought  allied, 

Never  to  mortals  given, 
0,  lay  thy  lovely  dreams  aside, 

Or  lift  them  unto  heaven ! 


MARIA  BROOKS. 

[U.    S.  A.,    1795-1845.] 

MARRIAGE. 

The  bard  has  sung,  God  never  formed  a 
soul 
Without  its  own  peciiliar  mate,  to  meet 
Its  wandering  half,  when  ripe  to  crown 
the  whole 
Bright  plan  of  bliss,  most  heavenly, 
most  complete ! 
But  thousand  evil  things  there  are  that 
hate 
To  look  on  happiness ;  these  hurt,  im- 
pede. 
And,  leagued  with  time,  space,  circum- 
stance, and  fate. 
Keep  kindred  heart  from  heart,  to  pine 
and  pant  and  bleed. 

And  as  the  dove  to  far  Palmyra  flying. 
From  where  her  native  founts  of  An- 
tioch  beam. 
Weary,    exhausted,    longing,     panting, 
sighing, 
Lights    sadly   at   the   desert's    bitter 
stream, — 
So  many  a  soul,  o'er  life's  drear  desert 
faring, 
Love's  pui'c,  congenial  spring  un found, 
unquaffed, 


JAMES   G.    PEECIVAL — JOHN    G.    0.    BRAINAED. 


155 


Suffers,  recoils,  —  then,  thirsty  and  de- 
spairing 
Of  what  it  woukl,  descends  and  sips 
the  nearest  draught. 


JAMES  G.  PERCIVAL. 

[u.  s.  A.,  1795     1856.] 

MAY. 

I  FEEL  a  newer  life  in  every  gale ; 

The  winds,  that  fan  the  flowers. 
And  with  their  welcome  breathings  fill 
the  sail. 
Tell  of  serener  hours,  — 
Of  hours  that  glide  nnfelt  aw'ay 
Beneath  the  sky  of  May. 

The  spirit  of  the  gentle  south-wind  calls 

From  his  blue  throne  of  air, 
And  where  his  \vhis|)ering  voice  in  music 
falls, 
Beauty  is  budding  there ; 
The  b7'ight  ones  of  the  valley  break 
Their  slumbers,  and  awake. 

The  waving  verdure  rolls  along  the  plain, 

And  the  wide  forest  weaves. 
To  welcome  back  its  playful  mates  again, 
A  canopy  of  leaves ; 
And  from  its  darkening  shadow  floats 
A  gush  of  trembling  notes. 

Fairer  and  brighter  spreads  the  reign  of 
May ; 
The  tresses  of  the  woods 
With  the  light  dallying  of  the  west-wind 
play; 
And  the  full-brimming  floods. 
As  gladly  to  their  goal  they  run, 
Hail  the  returning  sun. 


TO  SENECA  LAKE. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake. 

The  wild  swan  spreads  his  snowy  sail. 

And  round  his  breast  the  ripples  break 
As  down  he  bears  before  the  gale. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  waveless  stream, 
The  dipping  paddle  echoes  far, 


And  flashes  in  the  moonlight  gleam, 
And  bright  reflects  the  polar  star. 

The  waves  along  thy  pebbly  shore. 
As  blows  the  north-wind,  heave  their 
foam, 

And  curl  around  the  dashing  oar. 
As  late  the  boatman  hies  him  home. 

How  sweet,  at  set  of  sun,  to  view 
Thy  golden  mirror  spreading  wide, 

And  see  the  mist  of  mantling  blue 
Float  round  the  distant  mountain's  side. 

At  midnight  hour,  as  shines  the  moon, 
A  sheet  of  silver  spreads  below, 

And  swift  she  cuts,  at  highest  noon. 
Light  clouds,  like  wreaths   of  purest 
snow. 

On  thj'  fair  bosom,  silver  lake, 
0,  1  could  ever  sweep  the  oar, 

When  early  birds  at  morning  wake, 
And  evening  tells  us  toil  is  o'er ! 


JOHN  G.  C.  BRAINAED. 

[U.    S.    A.,    1796-  1828.] 

THE  FALL  OF  NIAGARA. 

The  thoughts  are   strange   that   crowd 

into  my  brain, 
While  I  look  upward  to  thee.     It  would 

seem 
As  if  God  poured  thee  from  his  hollow 

hand. 
And  hung  his  bow  upon  thine  awful  front ; 
And   spoke   in   that   loud   voice,  which. 

seemed  to  him 
Who  dwelt  in  Patmos  for  his  Saviour's 

sake, 
The   sound  of  many  waters;   and  had 

bade 
Thy  flood  to  chronicle  the  ages  back. 
And  notch  His  centuries  in  the  eternal 

rocks. 

Deep  calleth  unto  deep.  And  what 
are  we, 

That  hear  the  question  of  that  voice  sub- 
lime ? 

0,  what  are  all  the  notes  that  ever  rung 


156 


SONGS   OF   THREE    CENTUEIES. 


From  war's  vain  trumpet,  by  tliy  thun- 
dering side  ? 

Yea,  wliat  is  all  the  riot  man  can  make 

In  his  short  life,  to  th}'  unceasing  roar? 

And  yet,  bold  babbler,  what  art  thou  to 
Him 

Who  drowned  a  world,  and  heaped  the 
waters  far 

Above  its  loftiest  mountains? — a  light 
wave, 

That  breaks,  and  whispers  of  its  Maker's 
misht. 


EPirHALAMrmvi. 

I  SAW  two  clouds  at  morning 

Tinged  by  the  rising  sun, 
And  in  the  dawn  they  floated  on 

And  mingled  into  one  ; 
I  thought  that  moi-ning  cloud  was  blessed, 
It  moved  so  sweetly  to  the  west. 

I  saw  two  summer  currents 

Flow  smoothly  to  their  meeting. 

And  join  their  course,  with  silent  force, 
In  peace  each  other  greeting  ; 

Calm  was  their  course  through  banks  of 
green. 

While  dini2)ling  eddies  played  between. 

Such  be  your  gentle  motion, 
Till  life's  last  pulse  shall  beat ; 

Like  summer's  beam,  and  summer'sstream. 
Float  on,  in  joy,  to  meet 

A  calmer  sea,  where  storms  shall  cease,  — 

A  purer  sky,  where  all  is  peace. 


DANIEL  WEBSTEE. 

[U.    S.    A.,    1782-1852.] 

THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  HEART. 

If  stores  of  dry  and  learned  lore  we  gain, 
We  kec^p  them  in  the   memory  of   the 

brain ; 
Names,  things,  and  facts,  — whate'er  we 

knowledge  call, — 
There  is  th(^  common  ledger  for  them  all ; 
And  images  on  this  cold  surface  traced 
Make   slight   impression,  and  are  soon 

elfaced. 


But  we  've  a  page,  more  glowing  and  more 

bright. 
On  which  our  friendship  and  our  love  to 

write ; 
That  these  may  never  from  the  soul  depart, 
Wetrustthem  to  the  memory  of  the  heart. 
There  is  no  dimming,  no  efiacement  there ; 
Each  new  pulsation  keeps  the  record  clear ; 
Warm,  golden  letters  all  the  tablet  fill. 
Nor  lose  their  lustre  till  the  heart  stands 

still. 


JOSEPH  EODMAN  DEAKE. 

[U.    S.    A.,    1795-  1820.] 

THE  AMERICAN  FLAG. 

When  Freedom  from  hermountain  height 

Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night. 

And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there ; 
She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies. 
And  striped  its  pure,  celestial  white 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light ; 
Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 
She  called  her  eagle-bearer  down, 
And  gave  into  his  might}''  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

Flag  of  the  brave,  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high  ! 
When  speaks  the  signal -trumpet  tone, 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on, 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet. 
Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet. 
Each  soldier's  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn, 
And  as  his  springing  steps  advance. 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle-shroud, 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall, 
Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow. 

And  cowering  foes  shall  sink  beneath 
Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 

That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas,  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave ; 
When  death,  careering  on  tlie  gale. 
Sweeps  darkly  round  tlie  bellied  sail. 


JOHN   PIERPONT. 


157 


And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dymg  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home, 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given, 
Tliy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome. 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before 
us, 
"With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er 
us? 


JOHN  PIEEPONT. 

[U.    S.    A.,    1785 -1866.] 

PASSING  AWAY. 

"Was  it  the  chime  of  a  tiny  bell 

That  came  so  sweet  to  my  dreaming 
ear. 

Like  the  silver}^  tones  of  a  fairy's  shell 
That  he  winds,  on  the  beech,  so  mellow 
and  clear, 

"When  the  winds  and  the  waves  lie  to- 
gether asleep. 

And  the  Moon  and  the  Fairy  are  watch- 
ing the  deep. 

She  dispensing  her  silvery  light. 

And  he  his  notes  as  silvery  quite, 

While  the  boatman  listens  and  ships  his 
oar. 

To  catch  the  music  that  comes  from  the 
shore  ? 

Hark  !  the  notes  on  my  ear  that  play 

Are  set  to  Avords ;  as  they  float,  they  say, 
"Passing  away !  passing  away !" 

But  no ;  it  was  not  a  fairy's  shell, 

Blown  on  the  beach,  so  mellow  and 
clear ; 
Nor  was  it  the  tongue  of  a  silver  bell. 

Striking  the  hour,  that  filled  my  ear. 
As  I  lay  in  my  dream  ;  yet  was  it  a  chime 
That  told  of  the  flow  of  the  stream  of  time. 
For  a  beautiful  clock  from  the  ceiling 

hung, 
And  a  plump  little  girl,  for  a  pendulum, 

sAvung 
(As  you ' ve  sometimes  seen,  in  a  little  ring 


That  hangs  in  his  cage,  a   canary-bird 

swing) ; 
And  she  held  to  her  bosom  a  budding 

bou([uet. 
And,  as  she  enjoyed  it,  she  seemed  to  say, 
"Passing  away  !  passing  away !" 

0,  how  bright  were  the  wheels,  that  told 
Of  the  lapse  of  time,  as  they  moved 

round  slow ; 
And  the  hands,  as  they  swept  o'er  the 

dial  of  gold. 
Seemed  to  point  to  the  girl  below. 
And  lo  !  she  had  changed :  in  a  few  short 

hours 
Her  bouquet  had  become  a  garland  of 

flowers. 
That  she  held  in  her  outstretched  hands, 

and  flung 
This  way  and  that,  as  she,  dancing,  swung 
In  the  fulness  of  grace  and  of  womanly 

pride, 
That  told  me  she  soon  was  to  be  a  bride ; 
Yet  then,  when  expecting  her  happiest 

day. 
In  the  same  sweet  voice  I  heard  her  say, 
' '  Passing  away !  passing  away ! " 

While  I  gazed  at  that  fair  one's  cheek,  a 
shade 
Of  thought  or  care  stole  softly  over, 
Like  that  by  a  cloud  in  a  summer's  day 
made. 
Looking  down  on  a  field  of  blossoming 
clover. 
The  rose  yet  lay  on  her  cheek,  but  its 

flush 
Had  something  lost  of  its  brilliant  blush ; 
And  the  light  in  her  eye,  and  the  light 
on  the  wheels. 
That  marched  so  calmly  round  above 
her. 
Was  a  little  dimmed,  —  as  when  Evening 
steals 
Upon  Noon's  hot  face.     Yet  one  could 
n't  but  love  her. 
For  she  looked  like  a  mother  whose  first 

babe  lay 
Rocked  on  her  breast,  as  she  swung  all  day  ; 
And  she  seemed,  in  the  same  silver  tone, 
to  say, 
' '  Passing  away  !  passing  away ! " 

"While  yet  I  looked,  what  a  change  there 
came ! 
Her  eye  was  quenched,  and  her  cheek 
was  wan ; 


158 


SOXGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Stooping  and   staffed  was  her  withered 

I'ranie, 
Yet  just  as  busily  swung  she  on  ; 
The  garland  beneath  her  had  fallen  to  dust ; 
The  wheels  above  her  were  eaten  with  rust ; 
Tlie  hands,  that  over  the  dial  swept, 
Grew  crooked  and  tarnished,  but  on  they 

kept, 
And  still  there  came  that  silver  tone 
From  the  shrivelled  lips  of  the  toothless 

crone 
(Let  me  never  forget  till  my  dying  day 
The  tone  or  the  liurden  of  her  lay), 
"Passing  away  !  passing  away  !" 


TO  CONGRESS. 

A   WORD   FROM   A   PETITIONER,  1S37. 

What  !  our  petitions  spurned  !  The  prayer 
Of  thousands  —  tens  of  thousands  — 
cast, 
Unheard,  beneath  your  Speaker's  chair ! 

Ijut  ye  will  hear  us,  first  or  last. 
The  thousands  that  last  year  ye  scorned 
Are    millions    now.      Be   warned !      Be 
warned ! 

"The  ox  that  treadeth  out  the  corn 
Thou  shaltnot  muzzle."  —  Thus  saith 
God. 

And  will  ye  muzzle  the  free-born, — 
The  man,  —  the  owner  of  the  sod, — 

Who  "gives  the  grazing  ox  his  meat," 

And  you— his  servants  here — your  seat? 

There  's  a  cloud,  blackening  up  the  sky  ! 

East,    west,    and    north    its    curtain 
spi'eads ; 
Lift  to  its  muttering  folds  your  e}'c ! 

Beware  !  for  bursting  on  your  heads, 
It  hath  a  force  to  bear  you  down;  — 
'T  is  an  insulted  people's  frown. 

Ye  may  have  heard  of  the  Soultdn, 
And  how  his  Janissaries  fell ! 

Their  barracks,  near  the  Atmeidan, 
He  barred,  and  fired ;  and  their  death- 
yell 

Went  to  the  stars,  and  their  blood  ran 

In  brooks  across  the  Atmeidan. 

The  dcsy)ot  s]i:ike;  and,  in  one  night. 
The  dci'il  was  done.     He  wields,  alone, 

The  srcptiv  of  the  Ottomite, 

And  brooks  no  brother  near  his  throne. 


Even  now,  the  bow-string,  at  his  bock, 
Goes  round  his  mightiest  subjects'  neck ; 

Yet  will  he,  in  his  saddle,  stoop — 
I  've  seen  him,  in  his  palaee-yard — 

To  take  petitions  from  a  troop 
Of  women,  who,  behind  his  guard, 

Gome  up,  tlieir  several  suits  to  press, 

To  state  their  wrongs,  and  ask  redress. 

And  these,  into  his  house  of  prayer, 
I  've  seen  him  take  ;  and,  as  he  spreads 

His  own  before  his  Maker  there. 

These   women's   prayers  he   hears   or 
reads; — 

For,  while  he  wears  the  diadem, 

He  is  instead  of  God  to  them. 


And  this  he  must  do.     He  may  grant, 
Or  may  deny  ;  but  hear  he  must. 

Were  his  Seven  Towers  all  adamant, 
They'd  soon  be  levelled  with  the  dust, 

And  "public  feeling"make  short  work  — 

Shouldhe  not  hear  them — with  the  Turk. 

Nay,  start  not  from  your  chairs,  in  dread 
Of  cannon-shot  or  bursting  shell ! 

These  shall  not  fall  upon  your  head. 
As  once  upon  your  house  they  fell. 

We  have  a  weajion,  firmer  set 

And  better  than  the  bayonet,  — 

A  weapon  that  comes  down  as  still 
As  snow-flakes  fall  upon  the  sod, 

But  executes  a  freeman's  will 

As  lightning  does  the  will  of  God ; 

And  from  its  force  nor  doors  nor  locks 

Can  shield  you;  —  't  is  the  ballot-box. 

Black  as  your  deed  shall  be  the  balls 
That  from  that  box  shall  pour  like  hail ! 

And  when  the;  stoi-m  upon  you  falls, 
How  will  your  craven  cheeks  turn  pale  ! 

For,  at  its  coming  though  ye  laugh, 

'T  will  sweep  you  from  your  hall,  like 
chaft". 


Not  women,  now,  —  the  people  pray. 

Hear  us,  —  or  from  us  ye  will  hear ! 
Beware!  —  a  desperate;  game  ye  play! 

The  men  that  thicken  in  your  rear — 
Kings  though  ye  be — may  not  be  scorned. 
Look  to  your  move  !  your  stake  !     Ye  'be 
WAKKED. 


WILLIAM   MOTHERWELL. 


159 


WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL. 

[1798-1835-] 

JEANIE  MORRISON. 

I  'vK  wandered  east,  I  've  wandered  west, 

Through  niony  a  weary  way; 
But  never,  never  can  forget 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day ! 
The  tire  that  's  blawn  on  Beltane  e'en 

May  weel  be  black  gin  Yule ; 
But  blacker  fa'  awaits  the  heart 

Where  first  fond  luve  grows  cool, 

0  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Momson, 
The  thochts  o'  bygane  years 

Still  fling  their  shadows  ower  my  path, 
And  blind  my  een  wi'  tears : 

They  blind  my  een  wi'  saut,  saut  tears, 
And  sair  and  sick  I  pine. 

As  memory  idly  summons  up 
The  blithe  blinks  o'  langsyue. 

'T  was  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 

'T  was  then  we  twa  did  part ; 
Sweet  time — sad  time !   twa   bairns  at 
scule, 

Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart ! 
'T  was  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink. 

To  leir  ilk  ither  lear ; 
And  tones  and   looks  and  smiles  were 
shed, 

Kemembered  evermair. 

1  wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet, 
When  sitting  on  that  bink, 

Cheek  touchin'  cheek,  loof  locked  in  loof, 
What  our  wee  heads  could  think  ? 

When  baith  bent  doun  ower  ae  braid  page, 
Wi'  ae  bulk  on  our  knee. 

Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 
My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

0,  mind  j^e  how  we  hung  onr  heads. 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi'  shame. 
Whene'er  the  scule-weans  laughin'  said, 

We  decked  thegither  hame  ? 
And  mind  ye  o'  the  Saturdays 

(Tlie  scule  then  skail't  at  noon) 
When  we  ran  aff  to  speel  the  braes,  — 

The  broomy  braes  o'  June  ? 

My  head  rins  round  and  round  about. 

My  heart  flows  like  a  sea, 
As  ane  by  ane  the  thoclits  rush  back 

0'  scule-time  and  0'  thee. 


0  mornin'  life  !  0  mornin'  luve ! 

0  lichtsome  days  and  lang, 

When  hinnied  hopes  around  our  hearts 
Like  simmer  blossoms  sprang ! 

0,  mind  ye,  luve ,  how  aft  we  left 

The  deavin'  dinsome  toun, 
To  wander  by  tlie  green  burnside, 

And  hear  its  waters  croon  ? 
The  simmer  leaves  hung  ower  our  heads, 

The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet, 
And  in  the  gloamin'  o'  the  wood, 

The  throssil  whusslit  sweet ; 

The  throssil  whusslit  in  the  wood, 

The  burn  sang  to  tlie  trees, 
And  we,  with  Nature's  heart  in  tune, 

Concerted  harmonies ; 
And  on  the  knowe  abune  the  burn 

For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  silentness  o'  joy,  till  baith 

Wi'  very  gladness  grat. 

Aye,  aye,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Tears  trickled  doun  your  cheek, 
Like  dew-beads  on  a  rose,  yet  nana 

Had  ony  i)ower  to  speak ! 
That  was  a  time,  a  blessed  time. 

When  hearts  were  fresh  and  young, 
When  freely  gushed  all  feelings  forth, 

Unsyllabled,  unsung! 

1  marvel,  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Gin  I  hae  been  to  tliee 
As  closely  twined  wi'  earliest  thochts 

As  ye  hae  been  to  me? 
0,  tell  me  gin  their  music  fills 

Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine  ! 
0,  say  gin  e'er  your  heart  grows  grit 

Wi'  dreamings  o'  langsyne? 

I  've  wandered  east,  I  've  wandered  west, 

1  've  borne  a  weary  lot ; 

But  in  my  wanderings,  far  or  near, 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 
The  fount  that  first  burst  frae  this  he&rt 

Still  travels  on  its  way  ; 
And  channels  deeper,  as  it  rins, 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day. 

0  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 
Since  we  were  sindered  young, 

1  've  never  seen  your  face,  nor  heard 

The  music  o'  your  tongue  ; 
But  I  could  hug  all  wretchedness. 

And  happy  could  I  die, 
Did  I  but  ken  your  heart  still  dreamed 

0'  bygane  days  and  me ! 


160 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


THOMAS  HOOD. 

[1798-1845.] 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHmT. 

With  finf^ers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread,  — 
Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 
And  still,  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch, 

She  sang  the  "Song  of  the  Shirt ! 

"Work!  work!  work! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof ! 
And  work  — work — work. 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  root ! 
It  s,  oh  !  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 

If  THIS  is  Christian  work ! 

' '  W  ork  —  work — work  ! 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim ; 
Work — work  —  work. 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim ! 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band ; 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam ; 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep. 

And  sew  thein  on  iu  my  dream ! 

"  0  men  with  sisters  dear ! 

0  men  with  mothers  and  wives ! 
It  is  not  linen  you  're  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures'  lives ! 
Stitch —stitch — stitch, 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  SHROUD  as  well  as  a  shirt ! 

"But  why  do  I  talk  of  death. 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone? 
I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape. 

It  seems  so  like  my  own! 
It  seems  so  like  my  own 

Because  of  the  fast  I  keep ; 
0  God !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap ! 


And  a  wall  so  blank  my  shadow  I  thank 
For  sometimes  falling  there ! 

"  W  ork  —  work — work  ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime ; 
Work — work — w  ork. 

As  prisoners  work,  for  crime ! 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam ; 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band ; 
Till  the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  bram  be- 
numbed. 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand ! 

' '  Work — work — work  ! 

In  the  dull  December  light, 
And  work— work — work  , ,    .  , 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright : 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling, 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs, 

And  twit  me  with  the  spring. 

"0,  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet. 
With  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet ; 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want. 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal ! 

"0,  but  for  one  short  hour, — 

A  respite,  however  brief ! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope, 

But  only  time  for  grief ! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart  ; 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread!" 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 
With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 
Plying  her  needle  and  thread,  — 
Stitch  !  "stitch  !  stitch! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch- 
Would  that  its  ton  e  could  reach  tb  e  rich  ! - 
I      She  sang  this  "Song  of  the  Shirt !" 


"Work — work — work  ! 

My  labor  n(^ver  flags ; 
And  what  are  its  wages  ?   A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread — and  rags  : 
A  shattered  roof — ami  this  naked  floor — 

A  table — a  broken  chair — 


MORNING  MEDITATIONS. 

Let    Taylor    preach,  upon    a    morning 

breezy. 
How  well  to  rise  while  nights  and  larks 

are  flying,  — 


THOMAS   HOOD, 


161 


For  my  part,  petting  up  seems  not  so  easy 
By  half  as  lying. 

What  if  the  lark  does  carol  in  the  sky, 
Soaring  beyond  the  sight   to   find   him 

out, — 
"Wherefore  am  I  to  rise  at  such  a  fly  ? 
1  'm  not  a  trout. 

Talknottomeofbeesandsuch-likehums, 
The  smell  of  sweet  herbs  at  the  morning 

prime,  — 
Only  lie  long  enough,  and  bed  becomes 
A  bed  of  time. 

To   me   Dan   Phoebus   and  his  car  are 

naught. 
His  steeds  that  paw  impatiently  about,  — 
Let  them  enjoy,  say  I,  as  horses  ought, 
The  first  turn-out ! 

Eight  beautiful  the  dewy  meads  appear 
Besprinkled  by  the  rosy-fingered  girl ; 
What  then, — if  I  prefer  my  pillow-beer 
To  early  pearl  ? 

My  stomach  is  not  ruled  by  other  men's, 
And,  grumbling   for  a   reason,  f[uaintly 

begs 
Wherefore  should  master  rise  before  the 

hens 
Have  laid  their  eggs  ? 

A^Tiy  from  a  comfortable  pillow  start 
To  see  faint  flushes  in  the  east  awaken  ? 
A  fig,  say  I,  for  any  streaky  part. 
Excepting  bacon. 

An  early  riser  Mr.  Gray  has  drawn. 
Who  used  to  haste  the  dewy  giass  among, 
"To    meet  the   sun   upon   the   upland 
lawn,"  — 
Well,  —  he  died  young. 

With  charwomen  such  early  hours  agree, 
And  sweeps  that  earn  betimes  their  bit 

and  sup ; 
But  I  'm  no  climbing  boy,  and  need  not  be 

All  up,  — all  up ! 

So  here  I  lie,  my  morning  calls  defemng, 
Till  something  nearer  to  the   stroke   of 

noon ;  — 
A  man  that's  fond  precociously  oi stirring 

Must  be  a  spoon. 


SONG. 

0  Lady,  leave  thy  silken  thread 

And  flowery  tapestry — 
There  's  living  roses  on  the  bush, 

And  blossoms  on  the  tree. 
Stoop  where  thou  wilt,  thy  careless  hand 

Some  random  bud  will  meet ; 
Thou  canst  not  tread  but  thou  wilt  find 

The  daisy  at  thy  feet. 

'T  is  like  the  birthday  of  the  world, 

When  earth  was  born  in  bloom ; 
The  light  is  made  of  many  dyes. 

The  air  is  all  perfume ; 
There 's   crimson   buds,  and   white   and 
blue— 

The  yerj  rainbow  showers 
Have  turned  to  blossoms  where  they  fell, 

And  sown  the  earth  with  flowers. 

There  's  fairy  tulips  in  the  east,  — 

The  garden  of  the  sun ; 
The  very  streams  reflect  the  hues, 

And  blossom  as  they  run ; 
While  morn  opes  like  a  crimson  rose, 

Still  wet  with  pearly  showers : 
Then,  lady,  leave  the  silken  thread 

Thou  twinest  into  flowers. 


RUTH. 

She  stood  breast  high  amid  the  corn, 
Clasped  by  the  golden  light  of  morn, 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  tlie  sun. 
Who  many  a  glowing  kiss  had  won. 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush 
Deeply  ripened  ;  —  such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  born. 
Like  red  poppies  grown  with  corn. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell,  — 
Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell; 
But  long  lashes  veiled  a  light 
That  had  else  been  all  too  blight. 

And  her  hat,  with  shady  brim, 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim ;  — 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stocks, 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks. 

Sure,  I  said.  Heaven  did  not  mean 
Where  I  reap  thou  shouldst  but  glean ; 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown  and  come, 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 


162 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


W.  B.  0.  PEABODY. 

[U.  S.  A.,  1799-  1848.] 

HYMN  OF  NATURE. 

God  of  the  earth's  extended  phxins ! 
The  dark  green  iiekls  contented  lie ; 
The  mountains  rise  like  holy  towers, 
Where  man  niightcommuue  with  the  sky  ; 
The  tall  cliff  challenges  the  storm 
That  lowers  upon  the  vale  below, 
"Where    shaded    fountains     send     their 

streams, 
With  joyous  music  in  their  flow. 

God  of  the  dark  and  heavy  deep ! 
The  waves  lie  sleeping  on  the  sands, 
Till  tiie  fierce  trumpet  of  the  storm 
Hath   summoned   up   their   thundering 

bands ; 
Then  the  white  sails  are  dashed  like  foam, 
Or  hurry,  trembling,  o'er  the  seas, 
Till,  calined  by  thee,  the  sinking  gale 
Serenely  breathes,  Depart  in  peace. 

God  of  the  forest's  solemn  shade ! 
The  grandeur  of  the  lonely  tree. 
That  wrestles  singly  with  the  gale, 
Lifts  up  admiring  eyes  to  thee ; 
But  more  majestic  far  they  stand. 
When,  side  by  side,  their  ranks  theyform. 
To  wave  on  high  their  plumes  of  green. 
And  fight  their  battles  with  the  storm. 

God  of  the  light  and  viewless  air ! 
Where  sunnner  breezes  sweetly  flow, 
Or,  gathering  in  their  angry  might. 
The  fierce  and  wintry  tempests  blo\y ; 
All— from  the  evening's  plaintive  sigh. 
That  hardly  lifts  the  drooping  flower, 
To  the  wild  whirlwind's  midnight  cry  — 
Breathe  forth  the  language  of  thy  power. 

God  of  the  fair  and  open  sky  ! 
How  gloriously  above  us  si)rings 
The  tented  dome,  of  heavenly  blue, 
Suspended  on  the  rainbow's  rings. 
Eacii  brilliant  star,  that  sparkles  through : 
Each  gilded  cloud,  that  wanders  free 
In  eve^ning's  purple  radiance,  gives 
The  beauty  of  its  praise  to  thee. 

God  of  the  rolling  orbs  above  ! 
Thy  name  is  written  clearly  bright 
In  the  warm  day's  unvarying  blaze, 
Or  evening's  golden  shower  of  light. 


For  every  fire  that  fronts  the  sun, 
And  every  spark  that  walks  alone 
Around  the  utmost  verge  of  heaven, 
Were  kindled  at  thy  burning  throne. 

God  of  the  world !  the  hour  must  come, 
And  nature's  self  to  dust  return  ! 
Her  crumbling  altars  must  decay, 
Her  incense  fires  shall  cease  to  burn ! 
But  still  her  grand  and  lovely  scenes 
Have  made  man's  warmest  praises  flow ; 
For  hearts  grow  holier  as  they  trace 
The  beauty  of  the  world,  below. 


W.  A.  MUHLENBERa. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

I  WOULD  NOT  LIVE  ALWAY. 

I  WOULD  not  live  alway :  I  ask  not  to 

stay 
Where  storm  after  storm  rises  dark  o'er 

the  way ; 
Where,  seeking    for  rest,  I    but   hover 

around 
Like  the  patriarch's  bird,  and  no  resting 

is  found ; 
Where  hope,  when  she  paints  her  gay 

bow  in  the  air, 
Leaves  her  brilliance  to  fade  in  the  night 

of  despair. 
And  joy's  fleeting  angel  ne'er  sheds  a  glad 

rav. 
Save  the  gleam  of  the  plumage  that  bears 

him  away. 

I  would  not  live  alway,  thus  fettered  by 
sin. 

Temptation  without,  and  corruption 
within ; 

In  a  moment  of  strength,  if  I  sever  the 
chain, 

Scarce  the  victory  is  mine  ere  I  'm  cap- 
tive again. 

E'en  the  rapture  of  pardon  is  mingled 
with  fears. 

And  the  cuj)  of  thanksgiving  with  peni- 
tent tears. 

The  festival  trump  eallsfor  jubilantsongs, 

But  my  si)irit  In-r  own  miserere  prolongs. 

I  would    not   live  alway:    no,  welcome 

the  tomb; 
Immortality's   lamp  burns  there  bright 

mid  the  gloom. 


LADY  DUFFERIN. — WINTHROP   MACKWORTII  PRAED. 


163 


There,  too,  is   the   pillow  where  Christ 

bowed  his  head ; 
0,  soft  he  my  slumbers  on  that  hol}"^  bed  ! 
Aud  then  the  glad  morn  soon  to  follow 

that  night, 
AVhen  the  sunrise  of  glory  shall  burst 

on  my  sight, 
And  the  full  matin-song,  as  the  sleejjers 

arise 
To   shout    in    the   morning,  shall   peal 

through  the  skies. 

Who,  who  would  live  alway,  away  from 

his  God, 
Away   from    you   heaven,  that   blissful 

abode. 
Where  the  rivers   of  pleasure  flow  o'er 

the  bright  plains. 
And  the  noontide  of  glory  eternally  reigns; 
Where  the  saints  of  all  ages  in  harmony 

meet, 
Their  Saviour  and  brethren  transported 

to  greet. 
While  the  anthems  of  rapture  unceas- 
ingly roll. 
And  the  smile  of  the  Lord  is  the  feast  of 

the  soul  ? 

That  heavenly  music !  what  is  it  I  hear  ? 

The  notes  of  the  harpers  ring  sweet  on 
my  ear ! 

And  see  soft  unfolding  those  portals  of 
^gold. 

The  King  all  arrayed  in  hisbeauty  behold ! 

0,  give  me,  0,  give  me  the  wings  of  a  dove  ! 

Let  me  hasten  my  flight  to  those  man- 
sions above : 

Ay !  't  is  now  that  my  soul  on  swift 
pinions  would  soar, 

Aud  in  ecstasy  bid  earth  adieu  evermore. 


LADY  DUFFEEIN. 

[1807 -1867.] 

THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT. 

I  'm  sitting  on  the  stile,  Jlary, 

AVhere  we  sat  side  by  side 

On  a  bright  May  morning  long  ago, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride. 

The  com  was  springing  fresh  and  green, 

And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  high. 

And  the  red  was  on  your  lip,  Mary, 

Aud  the  love-light  in  your  eye. 


The  place  is  little  changed,  Mary ; 
The  day  's  as  bright  as  then  ; 
The  lark's  loud  song  is  in  my  ear, 
And  the  corn  is  green  again. 
But  I  miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand. 
And  your  wai-ra  breath  on  my  cheek. 
And  I  still  keep  listening  for  the  words 
Yoti  nevermore  may  speak. 

'T  is  but  a  step  down  j'onder  lane, 
The  village  church  stands  near,  — 
The  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary ; 
I  see  the  spire  from  here. 
But  the  graveyard  lies  between,  Mary, 
And  my  step  might  break  your  rest, 
Where  I  've  laid  you,  darling,  down  to 

sleep. 
With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 

I  'm  very  lonely  now,  Mary, 

For  the  poor  make  no  new  friends ; 

But,  O,  they  love  the  better  still 

Tlie  few  our  Father  sends  ! 

And  you  were  all  I  had,  Mary, 

My  blessing  and  my  pride  ; 

There  's  nothing  left  to  care  for  now, 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died. 

I  'm  bidding  you  a  long  farewell, 

My  ilary  kind  and  true. 

But  I  '11  not  forget  you,  darling, 

In  the  land  1  'm  going  to. 

They  say  there  's  liread  and  work  for  all. 

And  the  sun  shines  always  there; 

But  I  '11  not  forget  old  Ireland, 

Were  it  fifty  times  less  fair. 


WKTHEOP  MACKWOETH 
PEAED. 

[1801-1839.] 

THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BALL. 

Years,  years  ago,  ere  yet  my  dreams 

Had  been  of  being  wise  and  witty ; 
Ere  I  had  done  with  writing  themes. 

Or  yawned  o'er  this  infernal  Chitty,  — 
Years,  years  ago,  while  all  my  joys 

Were  in  my  fowling-piece  and  filly ; 
In  short,  while  I  was  yet  a  boy, 

I  fell  in  love  with  Laura  Lilly. 

I  saw  her  at  a  county  ball ; 

There,  when  the  sound  of  llute  and  fiddle 


164 


SOXGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Gave  signal  sweet  in  that  old  hall 

Of  hands  across  and  down  the  middle, 

Hers  was  the  subtlest  spell  by  far 

Ofall  that  sets  young  hearts  romancing : 

She  was  our  queen,  our  rose,  our  star ; 
And  when  she  danced —  0  Heaven,  her 
dancing ! 

Dark  was  her  hair ;  her  hand  was  white ; 

Her  voice  was  ex(|uisitely  tender ; 
Her  e3'es  were  full  of  liquid  light ; 

I  never  saw  a  waist  so  slender  ; 
Her  every  look,  her  every  smile, 

Shot  right  and  left  a  score  of  arrows : 
I  thought  't  was  Venus  from  her  isle, 

I  wondered  where  she  'd  left  her  spar- 
rows. 

She  talked  of  politics  or  prayers. 

Of  Southey's  prose   or  Wordsworth's 
sonnets. 
Of  daggers  or  of  dancing  bears, 

Of  battles  or  the  last  new  bonnets; 
By  candledight,  at  twelve  o'clock, 

To  me  it  mattered  not  a  tittle. 
If  those  bright  lips  had  quoted  Locke, 

I  might  have  thought  they  murmured 
Little. 

Through  sunny  May,  through  sultry  June, 

I  loved  her  with  a  love  eternal; 
I  spoke  her  praises  to  the  moon, 

1  wrote  them  for  the  Sunday  Journal. 
My  mother  laughed ;  I  soon  found  out 

That  ancient  ladies  have  no  feeling. 
My  father  frowned ;  but  how  should  gout 

Find  any  happiness  in  kneeling  ? 

She  was  tlie  daughter  of  a  dean. 

Rich,  fat,  and  rather  apoplectic ; 
Sh(!  had  one  brother,  just  thirteen, 

Wliose  color  was  extremely  hectic; 
Her  grandmother,  for  many  a  year. 

Had  feil  the  parish  with  her  bounty ; 
Her  second-cousin  was  a  peer. 

And  lord-lieutenant  of  the  county. 

But  titles  and  the  three  per  cents, 

And  mortgages,  and  great  relations, 
And  India  bonds,  and  tithes  and  rents, 

0,  wliat  are  they  to  love's  sensations? 
Black  eyes,  fair  foreliead,  clustering  locks, 

Such     wealth,    such     honors,    Cupid 
chooses ; 
He  cares  as  little  for  tlie  stocks 

As  Baron  Rothschild  for  the  muses. 


She   sketched ;  the  vale,  the  wood,  the 
beacli, 

Grewlovelierfrom  her  pencil's  shading: 
She  botanized  ;  I  envied  each 

Young  blossom  in  her  boudoir  fading: 
She  warbled  Hantlel ;  it  was  grand,  — 

Slie  made  the  Catalani  jealous  : 
She  touched  the  organ ;  I  could  stand 

For  hours  and   hours  and   blow  the 
bellows. 

She  kept  an  album,  too,  at  home, 

Well  filled  with  all   an  album's  glo- 
ries, — 
Paintings  of  butterflies  and  Rome, 

Patterns  for  trinnning,  Persian  stories, 
Soft  songs  to  Julia's  cockatoo. 

Fierce  odes  to  famine  and  to  slaughter, 
And  autographs  of  Prince  Leboo, 

And  recipes  for  elder  water. 

And  she  was  flattered,  worshipped,  bored ; 

Her  steps  were  watched,  her  dress  was 
noted ; 
Her  poodle  dog- was  quite  adored ; 

Her  sayings  were  extremely  quoted. 
She  laughed,  — and  every  heart  was  glad, 

As  if  tlie  taxes  were  abolished ; 
Slie  frowned,  — and  every  look  was  sad, 

As  if  the  opera  were  demolished. 

She  smiled  on  many  just  for  fun,  — 

I  knew  that  there  was  nothing  in  it ; 
I  was  the  first,  the  only  one 

Her  heart  had  thought  of  for  a  minute : 
I  knew  it,  for  slie  told  me  so. 

In  phrase  which  was  divinely  moulded ; 
She  wrote  a  charming  hand,  and  0, 

How  sweetly  all  her  notes  were  folded ! 

Our  love  was  like  most  other  loves,  — 

A  little  glow,  a  little  shiver ; 
A  rosebud  and  a  pair  of  gloves, 

And  "Fly  Not  Yet,"  upon  the  river; 
Some  jealousy  of  some  one's  ludr. 

Some  hopes  of  dying  broken-hearted, 
A  miniature,  a  lock  of  hair. 

The  usual  vows,  — and  then  we  parted. 

We  parted,  — months  and  years  rolled  by ; 

We  met  again  four  summers  after. 
Our  parting  was  all  sob  and  sigh. 

Our  meeting  was  all  mirth  and  laughter ; 
For  in  my  lieart's  most  secret  cfdl 

There  had  been  many  other  lodgers, 
And  slie  was  not  the  ball-room  belle. 

But  only  Mrs. — Something — Rogers. 


WILLIAM   LEGGETT.  —  FITZ-GEEENE   HALLECK. 


16^ 


WILLIAM  LEGGETT. 

[U.  S.  A.,  1802- 1839.] 

LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 

The  birds,  when  winter  shades  the  sky, 

Fly  o'er  tlie  seas  away, 
Where  laughing  isles  in  sunshine  lie, 

And  summer  breezes  play ; 


And  thus  the  friends  that  flutter  near 
While  fortune's  sun  is  warm 

Are  startled  if  a  cloud  appeal', 
And  lly  before  the  storm. 

But  when  from  winter's  howling  plains 

Each  other  warbler  's  past, 
The  little  snow-bird  still  remains. 

And  chirrups  midst  the  blast. 

Love,  like  that   bird,  when  friendship's 
throng 

With  fortune's  sun  depart. 
Still  lingers  with  its  cheerful  song, 

And  nestles  on  the  heart. 


EDWAED  COATE  PINKNET. 

[U.  S.  A.,  1802-  1828.] 

A  HEALTH. 

I  FILL  this  cup  to  one  made  up  of  loveli- 
ness alone, 

A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex  the  seeming 
paragon ; 

To  whom  the  better  elements  and  kindly 
stars  have  given 

A  form  so  fair,  that,  like  the  air,  't  is  less 
of  earth  than  heaven. 


Her  every  tone  is  music's  own,  like  those 

of  morning  birds, 
And  something  more  than  melody  dwells 

ever  in  her  words ; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they,  and 

from  her  lips  each  flows 
As  one  may  see  the  burdened  bee  forth 

issue  from  the  rose. 


Affections  arc  as   thoughts   to   her,  the 

measures  of  her  hours ; 
Her  feelings    have    the    fragrancy,  the 

freshness  of  young  flowers ; 
And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft,  so  fill 

her,  she  appears 
The  image  of  themselves  by  turns, — the 

idol  of  past  years. 

Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace 

a  picture  on  the  brain. 
And  of  her   voice   in  echoing  hearts  a 

sound  must  long  remain ; 
But  memory  such  as  mine  of  her  so  very 

much  endears. 
When  death  is  nigh  my  latest  sigh  will 

not  be  life's,  but  hers. 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up  of  loveli- 
ness alone, 

A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex  the  seeming 
paragon. 

Her  health !  and  would  on  earth  there 
stood  some  more  of  such  a  frame, 

That  life  might  be  all  poetry,  and  weari- 
ness a  name. 


FITZ-GEEENE  HALLECK. 

[U.S.  A.,  179s -1867.] 

BURNS. 

He  kept  his  honesty  and  truth, 
His  independent  tongue  and  pen. 

And  moved  in  manhood  as  in  youth, 
Pride  of  his  fellow-men. 

Strongsense,  deepfeeling,  passions  strong, 
A  hate  of  tyrant  and  of  knave, 

A  love  of  right,  a  scorn  of  wrong. 
Of  coward  and  of  slave,  — 

A  kind,  true  heart,  a  spirit  high. 

That  could  not  fear  and  would  not  bow. 

Were  written  in  his  manly  eye 
And  on  his  manly  brow. 

Praise  to  the  bard  !  his  words  are  driven. 
Like  flower-seeds  by  the  far  winds  sown. 

Where'er  beneath  the  sky  of  heaven 
The  birds  of  fame  have  flown. 


166 


SONGS    OF   THKEE   CENTURIES. 


Praise  to  the  man  !  a  nation  stood 
Beside  liis  cottin  with  M'et  eyes, 

Her  brave,  her  bcautifuh  her  good, 
As  when  A  loved  one  dies. 

And  still,  as  on  his  fnneral  day. 

Men  stand  his  cold  earth-couch  around, 

With  the  mute  homage  that  we  pay 
To  consecrated  ground. 

And  consecrated  ground  it  is. 

The  last,  the  hallowed  home  of  one 

Who  lives  upon  all  memories. 
Though  with  the  buried  gone. 

Such  graves  as  his  are  pilgrim  shi'incs. 
Shrines  to  no  code  or  creed  confined,  — 

The  Delidiian  vales,  the  Palestines, 
The  Meccas  of  the  mind. 


ON  A  PORTRAIT  OF  RED  JACKET, 

CHIEF   OF  THE   TUSCARORAS. 

Cooper,  whose  name  is  with  his  country's 
woven, 
First  in   her    files,  her    Pioneer    of 
mind,  — 
A  wanderer   now   in   other   climes,  has 
j)roven 
His  love  for  the   young  land  he  left 
behind ; 

And  throned  her  in  the  senate-hall   of 
nations, 
Eobed  like  tin;  deluge  rainbow,  heaven- 
wrought. 
Magnificent  as  his  own  mind's  creations. 
And  beautiful  as  its  green   \vorld  of 
thought ; 

And  faithful    to   the   Act   of  Congress, 
cpioted 
As  law  authority,  it  passed  nem.  con.  : 
He  writes  that  we  are,  as  ourselves  have 
voted. 
The    most    enlightened    people    ever 
known  ; 

That  nil  our  week  is  happy  as  a  Sunday 
In  Palis,  full  of  song  and  dance  and 
laugh  ; 
And  that,  from  Orleans  to  the    Bay  of 
Funiiy, 
There  's  not  a  baililF  or  an  epitajih ; 


And     furthermore  —  in    fifty    years,  or 
sooner. 
We  sliall  export  our  poetry  and  wine ; 
And  our  brave  lleet,  eiglit  frigates  and  a 
schooner. 
Will  sweep  the  seas  from  Zembla  to 
the  Line. 

If  he  were  with  me,  King  of  Tuscarora ! 

Gazing,  as  I,  upon  thy  jtortrait  now. 

In  all  its  medalled,  fringed,  and  beaded 

Its  eye's  dark  beaut}%  and  its  thought- 
ful brow,  — 

Its  brow,  half  martial  and  half  diplo- 
matic ; 
Its    eye,    upsoaring    like    an    eagle's 
wings,  — 
Well  might  he  boast  that  we,  the  Demo- 
cratic, 
Outrival  Europe,  even  in  our  kings  ! 

For  thou  wast  monarch  born.    Tradition's 
])ages 
Tell  not  the  planting  of  thy  parent  tree. 
But  that  the  forest  tribes  have  bent  for 
ages 
To  thee,  and  to  thy  sires,  the  subject 
knee. 


Thy  name  is  ]irincely,  —  if  no  poet'smagic 
Could   make   IIf.d   Jacket   grace   an 
English  rhyme, 
Though  some  one  with  a  genius  for  the 
tragic 
Hath  introduced  it  in  a  pantomime, 

Yet  it  is  music  in  the  language  spoken 
Of  thine  own  land  ;  and  on  her  herald 
roll. 
As  bravely  fought   for,  and  as  proud  a 
token 
As  Canir  de  Lion's  of  a  warrior's  soul. 


Thy  garb,  —  though  Austria's  bosom-star 
would  frighten 
That  medal  j)ale,  as  diamonds  the  dark 
nnne. 
And  George  the  Fourth  wore,  at  las  court 
at  ihighton, 
A  more  becoming  evening  dress  than 
thine; 


FITZ-GKEENE   HALLECK. 


1G7 


Yet 't  is  a  hrave  one,  scoruing  wind  and 
weatliei-, 
And  fitted  foi'  thy  coucli,  on  field  and 
flood, 
As  Kob  Koy's  tartan  for  tlie   Highland 
heather, 
Or  forest  green  for  England's   Robin 
Hood. 

Is    strength   a  monarch's  merit,  like  a 
whaler's  ? 
Thou  art  as   tall,  as   sinewy,  and  as 
strong 
As  earth's  first  kings,  — the  Argo's  gallant 
sailors, 
Heroes  in  history,  and  gods  in  song. 

Is  beauty? — Thine  has  with  thy  youth 
departed ; 
But  the  love-legends  of  thy  manhood's 
years. 
And  she  who  perished,  young  and  broken- 
hearted, 
Are —     But  I  rhyme  for   smiles  and 
not  for  tears. 

Is  eloquence?  —  Her  spell  is  thine  that 
reaches 
The  heart,  and  makes  the  wisest  head 
its  sport ; 
And  there  's  one  rare,  strange  virtue  in 
thy  speeches, 
The  secret  of  their  mastery,  — they  are 
short. 

Tlie  monarch  mind,  the  mystery  of  com- 
manding, 
The  birtli-hour  gift,  the  art  Xapoleon, 
Of  winning,  fettering,  moulding,  wield- 
ing, banding 
The  hearts  of  millions  till  they  move 
as  one,  — 

Thou  hast  it.    At  thy  bidding  men  have 
crowded 
The  road  to  death  as  to  a  festival ; 
And  minstrels,  at  their  sepulchres,  have 
shrouded 
With  banner-folds  of  glory  the  dark 
pall. 


-  not   I ;    for  in  de- 


Who  will  believe 
ceiving 

Lies  the  dear  charm  of  life's  delightful 
dream : 


I  cannot  spare  the  luxury  of  believing 
That  all  things  beautiful  are  what  they 

seem,  — 

Who  will  believe  that,  with  a  smile  whose 
blessing 
Would,  like  the  Patriarch's,  soothe  a 
dying  hour ; 
With  voice  as  low,  as  gentle,  and  caress- 
ing, 
As  e'er  won  maiden's  lip  in  moonlit 
bower ; 

With  look,  like  patient  Job's,  eschewing 
evil; 
With  motions  graceful  as  a  bird's  in 
air,  — 
Thou  art,  in  sober  truth,  the  veriest  devil 
That  e'er  clenched  fingers  in  a  captive's 
hair ! 

That  in  thy  breast  there  springs  a  poison 
fountain, 
Deadlier  than  that  Avhere  bathes  the 
Upas-tree ; 
And   in   thy   wrath,  a    nursing    cat-o'- 
mountain 
Is  calm  as  her  babe's  sleep  compared 
with  thee ! 


And  underneath  that  face,  like  summer 
ocean's, 
Its  lip  as  moveless,  and  its  cheek  as 
clear. 
Slumbers  a  whirlwind  of  the  heart's  emo- 
tions, — 
Love,  hatred,  pride,  hope,  sorrow,  — all 
save  fear. 

Love — for  thy  land,  as  if  she  were  thy 
daughter. 
Her  Y)ipe  in  peace,  her  tomahawk  in 
wars ; 
Hatred — of  missionaries  and  cold  water; 
Pride- — in  thy  ritle-trophies  and  thy 
scars ; 

Hope — that  thy  wrongs  may  be  by  the 
Great  Spirit 
Remembered  and  revenged  when  thou 
art  gone ; 
Sorrow — that  none  are  left  thee  to  in- 
herit 
Thy  name,  thy  fame,  thy  passions,  and 
thy  throne ! 


168 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

SONNET. 

WRITTEN    WHILE    IN    PRISON    FOK    DENOUNCING 
THE   DOMESTIC   SLAVE-TRADE. 

High  -walls  and  Imge  the  body  may  con- 
fine, 
And  iron  gates  obstruct  tlie  prisoner's 
gaze, 
And  massive  bolts  may  bafile  his  design, 
And  vigilant  keepers  watch  his  devious 
ways ; 
But  scorns  the  immortal  mind  such  base 
control : 
No  chains  can  bind  it  and  no  cell  en- 
close. 
Swifter  than  light  it  flies  from  pole  to  pole, 
And  in  a  flash  from  earth  to  heaven  it 
goes. 
It  leaps  frf)m  mount  to  mount ;  from  vale 
to  vale 
It  wanders,  plucking  honeyed   fruits 
and  flowers ; 
It  visits  home  to  hear  the  fireside  tale 
And  in  sweet  converse  pass  the  joyous 
hours ; 
'T  is  up  before  the  sun,  roaming  afar. 
And  in  its  watches  wearies  every  star. 


JOHN  NEAL. 

[U.   S.  A.] 

AMBITION. 

T  i,ovED  to  hear  the  war-horn  cry, 
And  ])anted  at  the  drum's  deep  roll. 
And  held  my  breath,  when,  floating  high, 
1  saw  our  starry  banners  fly. 
As,  challenging  the  haughty  sky, 
They  went  like  battle  o'er  my  soul. 
For  I  was  so  ambitious  then, 
I  longed  to  be  the  slave  of  men  ! 

I  stood  and  saw  the  morning  light, 
A  standard  swaying  far  and  free. 
And  loved  it  like  tlie  conquering  flight 
Of  angels,  floating  wide  and  blight 
Above  the  storm,  alxjve  the  figlit 
Where  nations  strove  for  liberty  ; 
And  heard  afar  the  signal-cry 
Of  trumpets  in  the  hollow  sky. 


I  sailed  with  storm  upon  the  deep, 
I  shouted  to  the  eagle  soaring ; 
I  hung  me  from  the  rocky  steep 
When  all  but  spirits  were  asleep, 
To  feel  the  winds  about  me  sweep, 
And  hear  the  gallant  waters  roaring : 
For  every  sound  and  shape  of  strife 
To  me  was  as  the  breath  of  life. 

But  I  am  strangely  altered  now : 
I  love  no  more  the  bugle's  voice. 
The  rushing  wave,  the  plunging  prow, 
The  mountain  with  its  clouded  brow. 
The  thunder  when  the  blue  skies  bow 
And  all  the  sons  of  God  rejoice. 
I  love  to  dream  of  tears  and  sighs. 
And  shadowy  hair,  and  half-shut  eyes ! 


GEORGE  LUNT. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

PILGRIM  SONG. 

Over  the  mountain  wave,  see  where  they 

come ; 
Storm-cloud  and  wintry  wind  welcome 

them  home ; 
Yet,  where  the  sounding  gale  howls  to 

the  sea, 
There  their  song  peals  along,  deep-toned 

and  free : 
"Pilgrims  and  wanderers,  hither   we 

come ; 
Where  tlie  free  dare  to  be,  — this  is  our 

home." 

England  hath  sunny  dales,  dearly  they 

bloom ; 
Scotia   hath   heather-hOls,    sweet    their 

perfume  : 
Yet  through  the  wilderness  cheerful  we 

stray. 
Native  land,  native  land,  home  far  away! 
"  Pilgrims  and  wanderers,  hither  we 

come  ; 
Where  the  free  dare  to  be, —  this  is  our 

home ! " 

Dim  grew  the  forest-path  :  onward  they 

trod ; 
Firm  beat  their  noble  hearts,  trusting  in 

God! 
Gray  men  and  blooming  maids,  high  rose 

their  song ; 


CHAELES    SPPtAGUE.  —  HENRY    SCOTT    RIDDELL. 


1G9 


Hear  it  sweep,  clear  and  deep,  ever  along : 
"  Pilgrims  and  waiiderurs,   hither  we 

come ; 
Wheie  the  free  dare  to  be, —  this  is  our 
home  ! " 

Not  theirs  the  glory-wreath,  torn  by  the 

blast ; 
Heavenward  their  holy  steps,  heavenward 

they  past. 
Green  be  their  mossy  gi-aves  !    ours   be 

their  fame, 
While  their  song  peals   along  ever  the 

same : 
"Pilgrims  and  wanderers,  hither  we 

come ; 
Where  the  free  dare  to  be, —  this  is  our 

home ! " 


CHARLES  SPEAGUE. 

[U.  S.  A.,  1791-  1874.] 

THE  FAMILY  MEETING. 

We  are  till  here, 

Father,  mother, 

Sister,  brother. 
All  who  hold  each  other  dear. 
Each  chair  is  filled ;  we  're  all  at  home  ! 
To-night  let  no  cold  stranger  come. 
It  is  not  often  thus  around 
Our  old  familiar  hearth  we  're  found. 
Bless,  then,  the  meeting  and  the  spot ; 
For  once  be  every  care  forgot ; 
Let  gentle  peace  assert  her  power. 
And  kind  affection  rule  the  hour. 

We  're  all  —  all  here. 

We  're  not  all  here  ! 
Some  are  away,  —  tlie  dead  ones  dear. 
Who  thronged  witliusthis  ancient  hearth, 
And  gave  the  hour  to  guileless  mirth. 
Fate,  with  a  stern,  relentless  hand, 
Looked  in,  and  thinned  our  little  band; 
Some  like  a  night-flash  passed  away. 
And  some  sank  lingering  day  by  day; 
The  quiet  graveyard, —  some  lie  there, — 
And  cruel  ocean  has  his  share. 

We  're  not  all  here. 

We  are  all  here  ! 
Even  thev,  — the  dead,  —  though  dead,  so 

dear,  — 
Fond  memory,  to  her  duty  true. 
Brings  back  their  faded  forms  to  view. 


How  life-like,  through  the  mist  of  years,^ 
Each  well-i-cmembered  face  appears  ! 
We  see  them,  as  in  times  long  past ; 
From  each  to  each  kind  looks  are  cast ; 
We  hear  their  words,  their  smiles  behold; 
They  're  round  us,  as  they  were  of  old. 
We  are  all  here. 

We  are  all  here, 

Father,  mother, 

Sister,  brother. 
You  that  I  love  with  love  so  dear. 
This  may  not  long  of  us  be  said ; 
Soon  must  we  join  the  gathered  dead. 
And  by  the  hearth  we  now  sit  round 
Some  other  circle  will  be  found. 
0,  then,  that  wisdom  may  we  know, 
Which  yields  a  life  of  peace  below ; 
So,  in  the  world  to  follow  this. 
May  each  I'epeat  in  words  of  liliss. 

We  're  all  —  all  here  ! 


HENRY  SCOTT  RIDDELL. 

OUR  MARY. 

Our  Mary  liket  weel  to  stray 
Where  clear  the  burn  was  rowin' ; 
And  troth  she  was,  though  I  say  sae, 
As  fair  as  aught  eie  made  o'  clay, 
And  pure  as  ony  go  wan. 

And  happy,  too,  as  ony  lark 

The  claud  might  ever  carry ; 

She  shunned  the  ill  and  sought  the  good, 

E'en  mair  than  weel  was  understood ; 

And  a'  fouk  liket  Mary. 

But  she  fell  sick  wi'  some  decay, 
When  she  was  but  eleven  ; 
And  as  she  pined  frae  day  to  day. 
We  grudged  to  see  her  gaun  away, 
Though  she  was  gaun  to  Heaven. 

There  's  fears  for  them  that 's  far  awa' 

And  fykes  for  them  are  flitting; 

But  fears  and  cares,  baith  grit  and  sma', 

We  by  and  by  o'er-pit  them  a' ; 

But  death  there  's  nae  o'er-pitting. 

And  nature's  ties  are  hard  to  break. 
When  thus  they  maun  be  broken ; 


170 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


And  e'en  the  form  we  loved  to  see, 
We  eanna  lang,  dear  though  it  be, 
Pieserve  it  as  a  token. 

But  Mary  had  a  gentle  heart, 
Heaven  did  as  gently  free  her  ; 
Yet  lang  afore  she  reached  that  part, 
Dear  sir,  it  wad  ha'e  made  ye  start 
Had  ye  been  there  to  see  her. 

Sae  clianged,  and  yet  sae  sweet  and  fair, 
And  growing  meek  and  meeker, 
Wi'  her  lang  locks  o'  yellow  hair. 
She  wore  a  little  angel's  air, 
Ere  angels  cam'  to  seek  her. 

And  when  she  couldna  stray  out  by. 
The  wee  wild  flowers  to  gather, 
She  oft  her  household  plays  wad  try. 
To  hide  her  illness  frae  our  eye. 
Lest  she  should  grieve  us  farther. 

But  ilka  thing  we  said  or  did 
Aye  pleased  the  sweet  wee  creature  ; 
ludeed,  ye  wad  ha'e  thought  she  had 
A  something  in  her  made  her  glad 
Ayont  the  course  o'  nature. 

But  death's  cauld  hour  cam'  on  at  last. 

As  it  to  a'  is  co7nin' ; 

And  may  it  be,  whene'er  it  fa's, 

Kae  waur  to  others  than  it  was 

To  Mary,  sweet  wee  woman  ! 


SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


THE  FORGING  OF  THE  ANCHOR. 

Come,  see  the  Dolphin's  anchor  forged  ; 

't  is  at  a  white  heat  now  : 
The  bellows  ceased,  the  Ihimes  decreased, 

tliougli  on  the  foi'ge's  brow 
The  little  flames  still  fitfully  play  through 

the  sable  mound ; 
And  fitfully  you  still  may  see  the  grim 

smiths  ranking  round. 
All  clad  in  leathern  ])anoply,  their  broad 

hands  only  bare ; 
Some  rest  upon  their  sledges  here,  some 

work  the  windlass  there. 

The  windlass  strains  the  tackle-chains, 
the  black  mound  heaves  below  ; 

And,  red  and  deep,  a  Iiundred  veins  burst 
out  at  every, throe : 


It  rises,  roars,  rends   all  outright,  —  0 

Vulcan,  what  a  glow  ! 
'T  is  blinding  white,  't  is  blasting  bright ; 

tlie  high  sun  shines  not  so ! 
The  high  sun  sees  not,  on  the  earth,  such 

fiery,  fearful  show,  — 
The  roof-ribs  swarth,  the  candent  hearth, 

the  ruddy,  lurid  row 
Of  smiths,  that  stand,  an  ardent  band, 

like  men  before  the  foe  ; 
As,  quivering  through  his  fleece  of  flame, 

the  sailing  monster  slow 
Sinks  on  the  anvil,  —  all  about  the  faces 

fiery  grow,  — 
"Hurrah!"  they  shout,  "leap  out,  leap 

out"  ;  bang,  bang,  the  sledges  go : 
Hurrah  !  the  jetted  lightnings  are  hissing 

high  and  low ; 
A  hailing  fount  of  fire  is  struck  at  every 

squashing  blow  ; 
The  leathern  mail  rebounds  the  hail ;  the 

rattling  cinders  strew 
The  ground  around;  at  every  bound  the 

sweltering  fountains  flow ; 
And  thick  and  loud  the  swinking  crowd, 

at  every  stroke,  pant  "Ho!" 

Leap  out,  leap  out,  my  masters;  leap  out 

and  lay  on  load ! 
Let's  forge  a  goodly  anchor;  a   bower, 

thick  and  broad : 
For  a  heart  of  oak  is  hanging  on  every 

blow,  I  bode. 
And  I  see  the  good  ship  riding  all  in  a 

perilous  road ; 
The  low  reef  roaring  on  her  lea ;  the  roll 

of  ocean  poured 
From  stem  to  stern,  sea  after  sea ;  the 

mainmast  by  the  board; 
The  bulwarks  down;  the  rudder  gone; 

the  boats  stove  at  the  chains ; 
But   courage   still,  brave  mariners,  the 

bower  yet  remains. 
And  not  an  inch  to  flinch  he  deigns  save 

when  ye  pitch  sky-high, 
Then  moves  his  head,  as  though  he  said, 

"Fear  nothing,  — here  am  I !" 

Swing  in  your  strokes  in  order ;  let  foot 

and  liand  keep  time. 
Your  blows  make  music  sweeter  far  than 

any  steeple's  chime: 
But  while  ye  swing  your  .sledges,  sing; 

and  let  the  burden  be. 
The  Anchor  is  the  Anvil  King,  and  royal 

craftsmen  we ! 


FEANCIS   MAHONY   (FATHER   PEOUT). 


171 


Strike  in,  strike  in,  —  the  sparks  begin  to 

dull  their  rustliiig  red  ; 
Our  hammers  ring  with  sharper  din,  our 

work  will  soon  be  sped  : 
Our  anchor  soon  must  change  his  bed  of 

fiery  rich  array 
For  a  hammock  at  the  roaring  bows,  or 

an  oozy  couch  of  clay ; 
Our  anchor  soon  must  change  the  lay  of 

merry  craftsmen  here, 
For  the  yeo-heave-ho,  and  the  heave-away, 

and  the  sighing  seamen's  cheer, 
When,  weighing  slow,  at  eve  they  go  far, 

far  from  love  and  home, 
And  sobbing  sweethearts,  in  a  row,  wail 

o'er  the  ocean  foam. 

In  livid  and  obdurate  gloom  he  darkens 

down  at  last ; 
A  shapely  one  he  is,  and  strong  as  e'er 

from  cat  was  cast. 
0  trusted  and  trustworthy  guard,  if  thou 

hadst  life  like  me, 
"What  pleasures  would  thy  toils  reward 

beneath  the  deep  green  sea  ! 
0  deep  sea-diver,  who  might  then  behold 

such  sights  as  thou  ? 
The  hoary  monsters'  palaces !  methinks 

what  joy  't  were  now 
To  go  plumb  plunging  down  amid  the 

assembly  of  the  whales. 
And  feel  the  churned  sea  round  me  boil 

beneath  their  scourging  tails ! 
Then  deep  in  tangle-woods  to  fight  the 

fierce  sea  unicorn. 
And  send  him  foiled  and  bellowing  back, 

for  all  his  ivory  horn  ; 
To  leave  the  subtle  sworder-fish  of  bony 

blade  forlorn ; 
And  for  the  ghastly-grinning  shark  to 

langh  his  jaws  to  scorn ; 
To  leap  down  on  the  kraken's  back,  where 

mid  Norwegian  isles 
He  lies,  a  lubber  anchorage  for  sudden 

shallowed  miles, 
Till  snorting,  like  an  under-sea  volcano, 

oft'  he  rolls  ; 
Meanwhile  to  swing,  a-buffeting  the  far- 
astonished  shoals 
Of  his  back-browsing  ocean  calves;  or, 

haply  in  a  cove. 
Shell-strewn,  and  consecrate  of  old  to  some 

Undine's  love. 
To  find  the  long-haired  mermaidens ;  or, 

hard  by  icy  lands, 
To  wrestle  with  the  sea-serpent  upon  ceru- 
lean sands. 


0  bi'oad-armed  fisher  of  the  deep,  whose 

sports  can  equal  thine  ? 
The  Dolphin  weighs  a  thousand  tons  that 

tugs  thy  cable  line  ; 
And  night  by  night 't  is  thy  delight,  thy 

glory  day  by  day, 
Through  sable  sea  and  breaker  white,  the 

giant  game  to  play  ; 
But,  shamer  of  our  little  sports !  forgive 

the  name  1  gave,  — 
A  fisher's  joy  is  to  destroy,  thine  ofiiee  is 

to  save. 
0  lodger  in  the  sea-king's  halls,  couldst 

thou  but  understand 
Whose  be  the  white  liones  by  thy  .side, 

or  who  that  diipping  band, 
Slow  swaying  in  the  heaving  waves  that 

round  about  thee  bend, 
With   sounds  like  breakers  in  a  dream 

blessing  their  ancient  friend  : 
0,  couldst  thou  know  what  heroes  glide 

with  larger  steps  round  thee, 
Thine  iion  side  would  swell  with  pride ; 

thou  'dst  leap  within  the  sea ! 
Give  honor  to  their  memories  who  left  the 

pleasant  strand 
To  shed  their  blood  so  freely  for  the  love 

of  fatherland, 
Who  left  their  chance  of  quiet  age  and 

grassy  churchyard  grave 
So  freely  for  a  restless  bed  amid  the  toss- 
ing wave ; 
0,  though  our  anchor  may  not  be  all  I 

have  fondly  sung. 
Honor  him  for  their  memory,  whose  bones 

he  goes  among ! 


FEANCIS  MAHONY  (FATHER 
PEOUT). 

[1805-1S65.] 

THE  BELLS  OF  SHANDON. 

With  deep  affection 

And  recollection, 

I  often  think  of 

The  Shandon  bells, 

Whose  sounds  so  wild  would 

In  days  of  childhood 

Fling  round  my  cradle 

Their  magic  spells. 

On  this  I  jjonder, 

Where'er  1  wander, 


172 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTUKIES. 


And  thus  grow  fonder, 
Sweet  (.ork,  of  thee  ; 
With  thy  bells  of  Shan  don, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 

I  've  heard  bells  chiming 
Full  many  a  clime  in, 
Tolling  sublime  in 
Cathedral  shrine, 
While  at  a  glib  rate 
Brass  tongues  would  vibrate; 
But  all  their  music 
Spoke  naught  like  thine; 
For  menioi'y,  dwelling 
On  each  proud  swelling 
Of  thy  belfry,  knelling 
Its  bold  notes  free. 
Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 

I  've  heard  bells  tolling 
Old  Adrian's  Mole  in, 
Tiieir  thunder  rolling 
From  the  Vatican ; 
And  cymbals  glorious 
Swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  tuiTets 
Of  Notre  Darne: 
But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter 
Than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er  the  Tiber, 
Pealing  solemnly. 
0,  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee  ! 

There's  a  bell  in  Moscow; 

While  on  tower  and  kiosk  0 

In  St.  Sophia 

The  Turkman  gets, 

And  loud  in  air 

Calls  men  to  prayer. 

From  th(;  tapering  summits 

Of  tall  miiuirets. 

Such  empty  phantom 

I  freely  grant  them  ; 

But  there  's  an  anthem 

More  dear  to  me,  — 

'T  is  the  bells  of  Shandon, 

That  sound  .so  grand  on 

The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 


NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS. 

[U.  S.  A.,  1S07-  1867.] 

UKSEEN  SPIRITS. 

The  shadows  lay  along  Broadway,  — 
'T  was  near  the  twilight  tide, — 

And  slowly  there  a  lady  fair 
Was  walking  in  her  pride. 

Alone  walked  she ;  but,  viewlessly. 
Walked  spirits  at  her  side. 

Peace  charmed  the  street  beneath  her  feet, 
And  Honor  charmed  the  air, 

And  all  astir  looked  kind  on  her. 
And  called  her  good  as  fair  ; 

For  all  God  ever  gave  to  her 
She  kept  with  chary  care. 

She  kept  with  care  her  beauties  rare 
From  lovers  warm  and  true  ; 

For  her  heart  was  cold  to  all  but  gold. 
And  the  rich  came  not  to  woo : 

But  honored  well  are  charms  to  sell. 
If  priests  the  selling  do. 

Now  walking  there  was  one  more  fair,  — 

A  slight  girl,  lily-pale ; 
And  she  had  unseen  company 

To  make  the  spirit  quail  : 
'Twixt  Want  and  Scoi-n  she  walked  for- 
lorn. 

And  nothing  could  avail. 

No  mercy  now  can  clear  her  brow 
For  this  world's  peace  to  pray ; 

For,  as  love's  wild  prayer  dissolved  in  air. 
Her  woman's  heart  gave  way! 

But  the  sin  forgiven  by  Chri.st  in  heaven. 
By  man  is  cursed  alway. 


FROM  MELANIE. 

A  CALM  and  lovely  paradise 

Is  Italy,  for  minds  at  ease; 
The  sadness  of  its  suiniy  skies 

Weighs  not  u])on  the  lives  of  these. 
The  ruined  aisle,  the  crumbling  fane. 

The  brokc^n  columns  vnst  and  prone, 
It  may  be  joy,  it  may  be  pain. 

Amid  su(;h  wnnjks  to  walk  alone. 
The  saddest  man  will  sadder  be, 

The  gentlest  lover  gentler  there,  — 


CAROLINE   ELIZABETH   NORTON. 


173 


As  if,  ■n'hate'er  the  spirit's  key, 

It  streiigtlieued  in  that  solemn  air. 

The  heart  soon  grows  to  mournful  things ; 

And  Italy  has  not  a  breeze 
But  comes  on  melancholy  wings ; 

And  even  her  majestic  trees 
Stand  ghostlike  in  the  Cajsars'  home. 

As  it  their  conscious  roots  were  set 
In  the  old  graves  of  giant  Kome, 

And  drew  their  sap  all  kingly  yet ! 
And  every  stone  your  feet  beneath 

Is  broken  from  some  mighty  thought; 
And  sculptures  in  the  dust  still  breathe 

The  fire  with  which  their  lines  were 
wrought ; 
And  sundered  arch,  and  plundered  tomb, 

Still  thunder  back  the  echo,  "liome." 

Yet  gayly  o'er  Egeria's  fonnt 

The  ivy  flings  its  emerald  veil, 
And  flowers  grow  fair  on  Nunia's  mount, 

And  light-sprung  arches  span  the  dale ; 
And  solt,  from  Caracalla's  baths. 

The  herdsman's  song  comes  down  the 
breeze, 
"While  climb  his  goats  the  giddy  paths 

To  grass-grown  architraves  and  frieze ; 
And  gracefully  Albano's  hill 

Curves  into  the  horizon's  line. 
And  sweetly  sings  tliat  classic  rill. 

And  fairly  stands  that  nameless  shrine ; 
And  here,  0,  many  a  sultry  noon 

And  starry  eve,  that  liap])y  June, 
Came  Angelo  antl  Melanie  ! 
And  earth  for  us  was  all  in  tune, — 

For  while  Love  talked  with  them, 
Hope  walked  apart  with  me. 


CAROLINE 


ELIZABETH 
TON. 


NOE- 


BINGEN  ON  THE  RHINE. 

A  SOLDIER  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in 

Algiers, 
There  was  lack  of  woman's  nursing,  there 

was  dearth  of  woman's  tears  ; 
But  a  comrade  stood  beside  him,  while 

his  life-blood  ebbed  away. 
And  bent,  with  jiitying  glances,  to  hear 

what  he  might  say. 


The  dying  soldier  faltered,  and  he  took 

that  comrade's  hand. 
And  he  said,  "I  nevermore  shall  see  my 

own,  my  native  land  ; 
Take  a  message,  and  a  token,  to  some 

distant  friends  of  mine. 
For  I  was  born  at  Bingeu,  —  lairBingen 

on  the  Rhine. 


' ' Tell  my  brothers  and  companions,  when 
they  meet  and  crowd  around, 

To  hear  my  mournful  story,  in  the  pleas- 
ant vineyard  ground. 

That  we  fought  the  battle  bravely,  and 
when  the  day  was  done, 

Full  many  a  corse  lay  ghastly  pale  beneath 
the  setting  sun ; 

And,  mid  the  dead  and  dying,  were  some 
grown  old  in  wars, — 

The  death-wound  on  their  gallant  breasts, 
the  last  of  many  scars ; 

And  some  were  yotmg,  and  suddenly  be- 
held life's  morn  decline,  — 

And  one  had  come  fioni  Bingen,  —  fair 
Bingen  on  the  Khine. 

"Tell  my  mother  that  her  other  son  shall 

comtbrt  her  old  age ; 
For  I  was  still  a  truant  bird,  that  thought 

his  home  a  cage. 
For  my  father  was  a  soldier,  and  even  as 

a  child 
My  heart  leaped  forth  to  hear  him  tell  of 

straggles  fierce  and  wild  ; 
And  when  he  died,  and  left  us  to  divide 

his  scanty  hoai'd, 
I  let  them  take  whate'er  they  would,  but 

kept  my  father's  sword ; 
And  with  boyish  love  I  hung  it  where  the 

bright  light  used  to  shine, 
On  the  cottage  wall  at  Bingen,  —  calm 

Bingen  on  the  Khine. 


"Tell  my  sister  not  to  weep  for  me,  and 

sob  with  drooping  liead. 
When  troops  come  marching  home  again 

with  glad  and  gallant  tread. 
But  to  look  upon  them  proudly,  with  a 

calm  and  steadfast  eye, 
For  her  brother  was  a  soldier  too,  and 

not  afraid  to  die ; 
And  if  a  comrade  seek  her  love,  I  ask  her 

in  my  name 
To  listen  to  him  kindly,  without  regret 

or  shame, 


174 


SONGS   OF  THEEE   CENTURIES. 


And  to  hang  the  old  sword  in  its  place 
(my  I'atlier's  sword  and  mine), 

For  the  honor  of  old  Bingen, — dearBingen 
on  the  Rhine. 


"There  's  another,  —  not  a  sister ;  in  the 

happy  days  gone  by 
You  'd  have  known  her  by  the  merriment 

that  sparkled  in  her  eye ; 
Too  innocent   for  coquetry,  —  too  fond 

for  idle  scorning,  — 

0  friend  !  I  fear  the  liglitest  heart  makes 

sometimes  heaviest  mourning! 
Tell  her  the  last  night  of  my  life  (for,  ere 

the  moon  be  risen, 
My  body  will  be  out  of  pain,  my  soul  be 

out  of  prison) 

1  dreamed  I  stood  with  her,  and  saw  the 

yellow  sunlight  shine 
On  the  vine-clad  hills  of  Bingen,  — fair 
Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 

"I  saw  the  blue  Rhine  sweep  along;  I 
heard,  or  seemed  to  hear. 

The  German  songs  we  used  to  sing,  in 
chorus  sweet  and  clear ; 

And  down  the  pleasant  rivei",  and  up  the 
slanting  hill, 

The  echoing  chorus  sounded,  thi'ough  the 
evening  calm  and  still ; 

And  her  glad  blue  eyes  were  on  me,  as 
we  passed,  with  friendly  talk, 

Down  many  a  path  beloved  of  yore,  and 
well-remembered  walk ! 

And  her  little  hand  lay  lightly,  confid- 
ingly in  mine,  — 

But  we  '11  meet  no  more  at  Bingen,  — 
loved  Bingen  on  the  Rhine." 

His  tremblingvoice  grew  faint  andhoarse, 

his  grasp  was  childish  weak,  — 
Hiseyes  put  on  a  dying  look,  — hesighed, 

and  ceased  to  speak ; 
His  comrade  bent  to  lift  him,  but  the 

spark  of  life  had  lied,  — 
The  soldier  of  the  Legion  in  a  foreign 

land  is  dead ! 
And  the  soft  moon  rose  up  slowly,  and 

calmly  she  looked  down 
On  the  red  sand  of  the  battle-field,  with 

bloody  corses  sti'ewn  ; 
Yes,  calmly  on  that  dreadful  scene  her 

pale  light  seemed  to  shine. 
As  it  shone   on   distant  Bingen,  —  fair 

Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 


EDWARD  LORD  LYTTOK 

THE  SABBATH. 

Fresh  glides  the  brook  and  blows  thegale, 
Yet  yonder  halts  the  quiet  mill ; 

The  whirring  wheel,  the  rushing  sail. 
How  motionless  and  still ! 

Six  days'  stern  labor  shuts  the  poor 
From  Nature's  careless  bancjuet-hall ; 

The  seventh  an  angel  opes  tlie  door, 
And,  smiling,  welcomes  all ! 

A  Father's  tender  mercy  gave 
This  holy  respite  to  the  breast, 

To  breathe  the  gale,  to  watch  the  wave. 
And  know — the  wheel  may  rest! 

Six  days  of  toil,  poor  child  of  Cain, 
Thy  strength  thy  master's  slave  must 
be; 

The  seventh  the  limbs  escape  the  chain,  — 
A  God  hath  made  thee  free  ! 

The  fields  that  yester-morning  knew 
Thy  footsteps  as  their  serf,  survey ; 

On  thee,  as  them,  descends  the  dew, 
The  baptism  of  the  day. 

Fresh  glides  the  brook  and  blows  thegale. 
But  yonder  halts  the  quiet  mill ; 

The  whirring  wheel,  the  rushing  sail, 
How  motionless  and  still ! 

So  rest,  0  weary  heart !  —  but,  lo. 

The    church-spire,   glistening    up    to 
heaven. 

To  war  n  th  ee  where  th  y  thoughts  shoul  d  go 
The  day  thy  God  hath  given  ! 

Lone  through  the  landscape's  solemn  rest, 
The  spire  its  moral  points  on  high. 

0  soul,  at  peace  within  the  breast, 
Rise,  mingling  with  the  sky  ! 

They  tell  thee,  in  their  dreaming  school, 
Of  power  from  old  dominion  hurled. 

When  rich  and  poor,  with  juster  rule, 
Sliall  share  the  altered  world. 

Alas  !  since  time  itself  began, 

Tliat  fable  hath  but  fooled  the  hour ; 

Each  age  tliat  ripens  power  in  man 
But  subjects  man  to  power. 

Yet  every  day  in  seven,  at  least. 
One  bright  republic  shall  be  known ; 


FRANCES  ANNE   KEMBLE. 


■EEANCES   S.    OSGOOD, 


17i 


Man's  world  awhile  hath  surely  ceased, 
When  God  proclaims  his  own ! 

Six  days  may  rank  divide  the  poor, 
0  Dives,  from  thy  banquet-hall ; 

The  seventh  the  Father  opes  the  door, 
And  holds  liis  feast  for  all ! 


FRANCES  ANNE  KEMBLE. 

FAITH. 

Better  trust  all  and  be  deceived. 
And  weep  that  trust  and  that  deceiving. 
Than  doubt  one  heart  that  if  believed 
Had  blessed  one's  life  with  true  believing. 

O,  in  this  mocking  world  too  fast 
The  doubting  fiend  o'ertakes  our  youth ; 
Better  be  cheated  to  the  last 
Than  lose  the  blessed  hope  of  truth. 


JOHN  STERLINa. 

[1806- 1844.] 

HYMN. 

0  FNSEEN  Spirit !  now  a  calm  divine 
Comes  forth  from  thee,  rejoicing  earth 
and  air! 
Trees,  hills,  and   houses,  all  distinctly 
shine. 
And  thy  great  ocean  slumbers  every- 
where. 

The  raountain-ridge  again  st  the  pui-ple  sky 
Stands  clear  and  strong,  with  darkened 
rocks  and  dells, 
And  cloudless  brightness  opens  wide  on 
high 
A  home   aerial,   where  thy  presence 
dwells. 

The  chime  of  bells  remote,  the  murmuring 
sea, 
The  song  of  birds  in  whispering  copse 
and  wood. 
The  distant  voice  of  children's  thoughtless 
glee, 
And  maiden's  song,  are  all  one  voice 
of  good. 


Amid  the  leaves'  green  mass  a  sunny  play 

Of  Hash  and  shadow  stirs  like  inward 

life  ; 

The  ship's  white  sail  glides  onward  far 

away, 

Unhaunted  by  a  dream  of  storm  or  strife. 

0  Thou,  the  primal  fount  of  life  and  peace, 

Who  shedd'st  thy  breathing  rpiict  all 

around. 

In  me  command  that  pain  and  conflict 

cease, 

And  turn  to  music  every  jarringsound ! 

How  longs  each  pulse  within  the  weary  soul 
To  taste  the  life  of  this  benignant  hour. 

To  be  at  one  with  thy  untroubled  whole, 
And  in  itself  to  know  thy  hushing 
power. 

In  One,  who  walked  on  earth  aman  of  woe. 
Was  holier  peace  than  even  this  hour 
inspires ; 
From  him  to  me  let  inward  quiet  flow. 
And  give  the  might  my  failing  will 
requires. 

So  this  gi-eat  All  around,  so  he,  and  thou. 

The  central  source  and  awful  bountl  of 

things. 

May  fill  my  heart  with  rest  as  deep  as  now 

To  land  and  sea  and  air  thy  presence 

brings. 


FPtANCES  S.  OSGOOD. 

[U.  S.  A.,   l8l2-  1850.] 

LABOR. 

Pause  not  to  dream  of  the  future  before 

us; 
Pause  not  to  weep  the  wild  cares  that 

come  o'er  us ; 
Hark  how  Creation's  deep,  musical  chorus, 
Unintermitting,  goes  up  into  heaven  ! 
Never  the  ocean-wave  falters  in  flowing ; 
Never  the  little  seed  stops  in  its  growing ; 
More  and  more  richly  the  rose  heart  keeps 

glowing. 
Till  from  its  nourishing  stem  it  is  riven. 

"  Labor  is  worship ! "  the  robin  is  sing- 
ing; 

"Labor  is  worship!"  the  wild  bee  is 
ringing : 


176 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Listen  !  tliat  olor^uent  whisper,  iipspring- 
ing 
Speaks  to  thy  soul  from  out  nature's 
gi'eat  heart. 

From  the  chirk  cIoulI  ilows  tlie  life-giving 
shower ; 

From  the  rough  sod  blows  the  soft-breath- 
ing llower ; 

From  the   small   insect,  the   rich  coral 
bower ; 
Only  man,  in  the  plan,  shiinks  from 
his  part. 

Labor  is  life  !  —  'T  is  the  still  water  fail- 
eth; 

LUeness  ever  despaireth,  bewaileth; 

Keep  the  watch  -wound,  for  the  dark  rust 
assaileth ; 
Flowers  droop  and  die  in  the  stillness 
of  noon. 

Labor  is  gloiy  ! — the  flying  cloud  light- 
ens; 

Only    the    waving    wing    changes    and 
brightens ; 

Idle  hearts  only  the  dark  future  fright- 
ens : 
Play  the  sweet  keys,  wouldst  thou  keep 
them  in  tune ! 

Labor  is  rest  from  the  sorrows  that  greet 
us, 

Restfrom  all  petty  vexations  thatmeet  us, 

Kest  from  sin-promptings  that  ever  en- 
treat us. 
Rest  from  world-sirens  that  lure  us  to 
ill. 

Work,  — and  pure  slumbers  shall  wait  o]i 
thy  pillow ; 

Work,  —  tliou  shalt  ride  over  Care's  com- 
ing billow ; 

Lie  not  down  wearied  'ueath  Woe's  weep- 
ing willow ! 
Work  with  a  stout  heart  and  resolute 
will! 

Labor  is  health  !  —  Lo  !  the  husbandman 
reaping, 

How  through  his  veins  goes  the  life-cur- 
rent leajjing ! 

How  his  strong  arm  in  its  stalwart  pride 
sweeping, 
True   as  a  sunbeam  the   swift  sickle 
guides. 

Labor  is  wealth, — in  the  sea  the  pearl 
groweth ; 

Rich  the  quecni's  robe  from  the  frail  co- 
coon iloweth ; 


From  the  fine   acorn   the  strong  forest 
bloweth ; 
Temple  and  statue  the  marble  block 
hides. 

Droop  not,  though  shame,  sin,  and  anguish 

are  round  thee ; 
Bravely  tiing  off  the  cold  chain  that  hath 

bound  thee ! 
Look  to  yon  "pure  heaven  smiling  beyond 

thee ; 
Rest  not  content  in  thy  darkness,  —  a 

clotl ! 
Work   for   some   good,   be    it    ever    so 

slowly; 
Cherish  some  flower,  be  it  ever  so  lowly  : 
Labor ! —  all  labor  is  noble  and  holy  ; 
Let  thy  great  deeds  be  thy  prayer  to 

thy  God. 


JONES  VERY. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

THE  PRESENT  HEAVEN. 

Fattier  !  thywondersdo  not  singly  .stand, 
Nor  far  removed  where  feet  have  sel- 
dom strayed ; 
Around  us  ever  lies  the  enchanted  land. 
In  marvels  rich  to  thine  own  sons  dis- 
played. 

In  finding  thee  are  all  things  round  us 
found ; 
In  losing  thee  are  all  things  lost  beside ; 
Ears  have  we,  but  in  vain  sweet  voices 
sound. 
And  to  our  eyes  the  vision  is  denied. 

Open  our  eyes,  that  we  that  world  may 
see ! 
Open  our  ears,  that  we  thj'  voice  may 
hear, 
And  in  the  spirit-land  may  ever  be, 
And  feel  thy  presence  with  us,  always 
near. 


TO  THE  PAINTED  COLUMBINE. 

Bright  image  of  the  early  years 
When  glowed  my  cheek  as  red  as 
thou, 


THOMAS   MILLER. — JOIIX   KEBLE. 


177 


And  life's  dark  throng  of  cares  and  fears 
Were  swift-winged  shadows  o'ermy  sunny 
brow ! 

Thou  blushest  from  the  painter's  page, 

Robed  in  the  niiinic  tints  of  art ; 
But  Nature's  hand  in  youth's  green  age 
"With  fairer  hues  tirst  traced  thee  on  my 
heart. 

The  morning's  blush,  she  made  it  thine ; 
The  morn's  sweet  breath,  she  gave 
it  thee ; 
And  in  tliy  look,  my  Columbine ! 
Each  Ibnd-remembered  spot  she  bade  me 
see. 

I  see  the  hill's  far-gazing  head. 

Where  gay  thou  noddest  in  the  gale ; 
I  hear  light-hounding  footsteps  tread 
Thegrassy  path  that  winds  along  the  vale. 

I  liear  the  voice  of  woodland  song 
Break   from   each    bush   and   well- 
known  tree, 
And,  on  light  pinions  borne  along, 
Comes  back  the  laugh  from  childhood's 
heart  of  glee. 

O'er  the  dark  rock  the  dashing  brook, 

With  look  of  anger,  leaps  again, 
And,  hastening  to  each  llowery  nook, 
Its  distant  voice  is  heard  far  down  the 
glen. 

Fair  child  of  art !  thy  charms  decay, 
Touched  by  the  withered  hand   of 
Time; 
And  hushed  the  music  of  that  day. 
When  my  voice  mingled  with  the  stream- 
let's chime : 

But  on  my  heart  thy  cheek  of  bloom 
Shall  live  when  Nature's  smile  has 
fled ; 
And,  rich   with  memory's  sweet  per- 
fume. 
Shall  o'er  her  grave  thj^  tribute  incense 
shed. 

There   shalt  thou  live  and  wake  the 
glee 
That  echoed  on  thy  native  hill ; 
And  when,  loved  flower!    I  think  of 
thee. 
My  infant  feet  will  seem  to  seek   thee 
still. 

12 


THOMAS  MILLER. 

EVEKING  SONG. 

How  many  days  with  mute  adieu 
Have  gone  down  yon  untrodden  sky, 
And  still  it  looks  as  clear  and  blue 
As  when  it  hrst  was  hung  on  high. 
The  rolling  sun,  the  frowning  cloud 
That  drew  the  lightning  in  its  rear. 
The  thunder  tranjpiiig  deep  and  loud, 
Have  left  no  foot-mark  there. 

The  village-bells,  with  silver  chime, 
Come  sottened  by  the  distant  shore ; 
Though  I  have  heard  them  many  a  time, 
They  never  rung  so  sweet  before". 
A  silence  rests  upon  the  lull, 
A  listening  awe  pervades  the  air ; 
The  very  flowers  are  shut  and  still, 
And  bowed  as  if  in  prayer. 

And  in  this  hushed  and  breathless  close, 
O'er  earth  and  air  and  sky  and  sea, 
A  still  low  voice  in  silence  goes. 
Which  speaks  alone,  great  God,  of  thee. 
The  whispering  leaves,  the  far-ort'  brook, 
The  linnet's  warble  fainter  grown. 
The  hive-bound  bee,  the  building  rook,  — 
All  these  their  Maker  own. 

Now  Nature  sinks  in  soft  repose, 
A  living  semblance  of  the  grave; 
The  dew  steals  noiseless  on  the  rose. 
The  boughs  have  almost  ceased  to  wave ; 
The  silent  sky,  the  sleeping  earth. 
Tree,  mountain,  stream,  the  humble  sod. 
All  tell  from  whom  they  liad  their  birth, 
And  cry,  "Behold  a  God ! " 


JOHN  KEBLE. 

[1796- 1821.] 

MORNING. 

0,  TIMELY  happy,  timely  wise. 
Hearts  that  with  rising  morn  arise ! 
Eyes  that  the  beam  celestial  view. 
Which  evermore  makes  all  things  new ! 

New  every  morning  is  the  love 
Our  wakening  and  uprising  prove, 


178 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Through     sleep     and     darkness     safely 

brought, 
Restored  to  life  and  power  and  thought. 

New  mercies,  each  returning  day, 
Hover  around  us  while  we  pray ; 
New  perils  past,  new  sins  forgiven. 
New   thoughts  of  God,  new    hopes    of 
heaven. 

If,  on  our  daily  course,  oui-  mind 
Be  set  to  hallow  all  we  find, 
New  treasures  still,  of  countless  price, 
God  will  provide  for  sacrifice. 

Old  friends,  old  scenes,  will  lovelier  be, 
As  more  of  Heaven  in  each  we  see ; 
Some  softening  gleam  of  love  and  prayer 
Shall  dawn  on  every  cross  and  care. 

As  for  some  dear  familiar  strain 
Untired  we  ask,  and  ask  again. 
Ever  in  its  melodious  store 
Finding  a  spell  unheard  before,  — 

Such  is  the  bliss  of  souls  serene, 

"When   they  have   sworn,  and   steadfast 

mean, 
Counting  the  cost,  in  all  to  espy 
Their  God,  in  all  themselves  deny. 

0,  could  we  learn  that  sacrifice, 
What  lights  would  all  around  us  rise  ! 
How  would  our  hearts  with  wisdom  talk 
Along  life's  dullest,  dreariest  walk  ! 

We  need  not  bid,  for  cloistered  cell, 
Our  neighbor  and  our  work  farewell. 
Nor  strive  to  wind  ourselves  too  high 
For  sinful  man  beneath  the  sky. 

The  trivial  round,  the  common  task, 
Will  furnish  all  we  ought  to  ask  ; 
Room  to  deny  ourselves;  a  road 
To  bring  us,  daily,  nearer  God. 

Seek  we  no  more:  content  with  these, 
Let  present  rapture,  comfort,  ease, 
As  Heaven  shall  bid  them,  come  and  go; 
The  secret  this  of  rest  below. 

Only,  0  Lord,  in  thy  dear  love 
Fit  us  for  i)erfect  rest  above  ; 
And  help  us,  tliis  and  every  day, 
To  live  more  nearly  as  we  pray  ! 


INWARD  MUSIC. 

There  are  in  this  loud  stunning  tide 

Of  human  care  and  crime. 
With  whom  the  melodies  abide 

Of  the  everlasting  chime  ; 
Who  carry  music  in  their  heart 

Through  dusky  lane  and  wrangling 
mart. 
Plying  their  daily  toil  with  busier  feet. 
Because  their  secret  souls  a  holy  strain 
repeat. 


SIR  EGBERT  GRANT. 

[1814-1838.] 

0  SAVIOUR  1    WHOSE  MERCY. 

0  Saviour  !  whose  mercy,  severe  in  its 
kindness, 
Hath   chastened  my  wanderings   and 
guided  my  way. 
Adored  be  the  power  that  illumined  my 
blindness, 
And  weaned  me  from  phantoms  that 
smiled  to  betray. 

Enchanted   with  all   that  was  dazzling 
and  fair, 
I  followed  the  rainbow,  I   caught  at 
the  toy ; 
And  still   in   displeasure  thy  goodness 
was  there. 
Disappointing  the  hope  and  defeating 
the  joy. 

The  blossom  blushed  bright,  but  a  worm 
was  below ; 
The  moonlight  shone  fair,  there   was 
blight  in  the  beam  ; 
Sweet  whispered  the  breeze,  but  it  whis- 
pered of  woe ; 
And  liitterness  flowed  in  the  soft-flow- 
ing stream. 

So  cured  of  ray  folly,  yet  cured  but  in 
part, 
I  turned  to  the  refuge  thy  pity  dis- 
played ; 
And  still  did  this  eager  and   credulous 
heart 
Weave  visions  of  promise  that  bloomed 
but  to  fade. 


DEAN    OF   CANTERBURY,  —  BRYAN   WALLER   PROCTER. 


179 


I  thought  that  the  course  of  the  pilgrim 
to  heaven 
Would  be  blight  as  the  summer  and 
glad  as  the  morn : 
Thou  showedst  me  the  path ;  it  was  dark 
and  uneven, 
All  rugged  with  rock  and  all  tangled 
with  thorn. 

I  dreamed  of  celestial   rewards  and  re- 
novi^n, 
I  grasped  at  the  triumjjh  that  blesses 
the  brave ; 
I  asked  for  the  palm-branch,  the  robe, 
and  the  crown, 
I  asked,  and  thou  showedst  me  a  cross 
ami  a  grave ! 

Subdued  and  instructed,  at  length  to  thy 
will 
My  hopes  and  my  wishes  I  freely  re- 
sign ; 
0,  give  me  a  heart  that  can  wait  and  be 
still. 
Nor  know  of  a  wish  or  a  pleasure  but 
thine. 

There  are  mansions  exempted  from  sin 
and  from  woe. 
But  they  stand  in  a  region  by  mortals 
untrod ; 
There  are  rivers  of  joy,  but  they  roll  not 
below ; 
There  is  rest,  but  't  is  found  in  the 
bosom  of  God. 


DEAN  OF  CANTERBURY. 


TRUST. 

I  KNOW  not  if  or  dark  or  bright 

Shall  be  my  lot ; 
If  that  wherein  my  hopes  delight 

Be  best,  or  not. 

It  may  be  mine  to  drag  for  years 

Toil's  heavy  chain ; 
Or  day  and  night  my  meat  be  tears 

On  bed  of  pain. 

Dear  faces  may  surround  my  hearth 
With  smiles  and  glee  ; 

Or  I  may  dwell  alone,  and  mirth 
Be  strange  to  me. 


My  bark  is  wafted  to  the  strand 

By  breath  divine ; 
And  on  the  helm  there  rests  a  hand 

Other  than  mine. 

One  who  has  known  in  storms  to  sail 

I  have  on  board ; 
Above  the  raving  of  the  gale 

1  hear  my  Lord. 

He  holds  me  when  the  billows  smite,  — 

I  shall  not  fall. 
If    sharp,  't    is    short ;    if   long,  't  is 
light,  - 

He  tempers  all. 

Safe  to  the  land,  safe  to  the  land,  — 

The  end  is  this; 
And  then  with  Him  go  hand  in  hand 

Far  into  bliss. 


BRYAN  WALLER  PROCTER 
(BARRY  CORNWALL). 

[17S7-1874.] 

A  PETITION  TO  TIME, 

Touch  us  gently.  Time  ! 

Let  us  glide  adown  thy  stream 
Gently,  —  as  we  sometimes  glide 

Thiough  a  quiet  dream! 
Humble  voyagers  are  we. 
Husband,  wife,  and  children  three,  — 
(One  is  lost,  —  an  angel,  iled 
To  the  azure  overhead!) 

Touch  us  gently,  Time  ! 

We  've  not  proud  nor  soaring  wings; 
Our  ambition,  our  content, 

Lies  in  simple  things. 
Humble  voyagers  are  we, 
O'er  life's  dim,  unsounded  sea, 
Seeking  only  some  calm  clime;  — 
Touch  us  gently,  gentle  Time ! 


A  PRAYER  IN  SICKSTESS. 

Sexd  down  thy  winged  angel,  God ! 

Amid  this  night  so  wild  ; 
And  bid  him  come  where  now  we  watch, 

And  breathe  upon  our  child ! 


180 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


She  lies  upon  her  j)illovv,  pale, 
And  niuans  within  her  sleep, 

Or  wakenetli  witli  a  patient  smile, 
And  striveth  not  to  weep. 

How  gentle  and  how  good  a  child 
She  is,  we  know  too  well, 

And  dearer  to  her  parents'  hearts 
Than  our  weak  words  can  tell. 


We  love, — w-e  watch  throughout  the  night 

To  aid,  when  need  may  be ; 
We  hope,  —  and  have  despaired,  at  times, 

But  now  we  turn  to  thee ! 

Send  down  thy  sweet-souled  angel,  God  ! 

Amid  the  darkness  wild, 
Antl  bid  him  soothe  our  souls  to-night. 

And  heal  our  gentle  child  ! 


KICHARD   MONCKTON   MILNES 
(LORD  HOUGHTON). 

THE  BROOKSIDE. 

I  WANDERED  by  the  brookside, 

I  wandered  by  the  mill ; 

1  could  not  hear  the  brook  flow,  — 

Tlie  noisy  wheel  was  still ; 

There  was  no  burr  of  grasshopper, 

No  chirp  of  any  bird. 

But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 


I  sat  beneath  the  elm-tree ; 

I  watclied  the  long,  long  shade, 

And,  as  it  gn;w  still  longer, 

I  did  not  feel  afraid  ; 

Fi)r  1  listened  for  a  footfall, 

I  listened  for  a  word, — 

y>nt  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

He  came  not, — no,  he  enme  not, — 
The  niglit  came  on  alone,  — 
The  little  stars  sat  one  by  one, 
J'lach  on  his  golden  throne  ; 
Tlu;  evening  wind  passed  by  my  cheek, 
Tlie  leaves  above  were  stirred,  — 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 
Was  all  the  sound  1  heard. 


Fast  silent  tears  were  flowing, 
When  something  stood  behind ; 
A  Jiand  was  on  my  shoulder,  — 
I  knew  its  touch  was  kind  : 
It  drew  me  nearer, — nearer, — 
We  did  not  speak  one  word. 
For  the  beating  of  our  own  hearts 
Was  all  the  sound  we  heard. 


THE  MEN  OF  OLD. 

I  KNOW  not  that  the  men  of  old 

Were  better  than  men  now,. 
Of  heart  more  kind,  of  hand  more  bold. 

Of  more  ingenuous  brow  ; 
I  heed  not  those  wlio  pine  for  force 

A  ghost  of  time  to  raise, 
As  if  they  thus  could  check  the  course 

Of  these  ajipointed  days. 

Still  is  it  true  and  over-true, 

That  I  delight  to  (dose 
This  book  of  life  self-wise  and  new, 

And  let  my  thoughts  repose 
On  all  that  humble  happiness 

The  world  has  since  foregone,  — ■ 
The  daylight  of  contentedness 

That  on  those  faces  shone  ! 

With   rights,    though    not    too    closely 
scanned. 

Enjoyed  as  far  as  known,  — 
With  will,  liy  no  reverse  unmanned, — 

With  pulse  of  even  tone,  — 
They  from  to-day  and  from  to-night 

Expected  nothing  more 
Than  yesterday  and  yesternight 

Had  proffered  them  before. 

To  them  was  life  a  simple  art 

Of  duties  to  be  done, 
A  game  where  each  man  took  his  part, 

A  race  where  all  must  run ; 
A  battle  whose  great  scheme  and  scope 

They  little  cared  to  know, 
Content,  as  men-at-arms,  to  cope 

Each  with  his  fronting  foe. 

Man  now  his  virtue's  diadem 
Puts  on,  and  proudly  wears, — 

Great  tlioughts,  great  feelings,  came  to 
them, 
Like  instincts  unawares ; 

Blending  their  souls'  sublimest  needs 
With  tasks  of  every  day. 


MARY   HOWITT. 


181 


They  went  aliont  their  gravest  deeds, 
As  noble  boys  at  play. 

A  man's  best  things  are  nearest  him, 

Lie  close  about  his  I'eet ; 
It  is  the  distant  and  the  dim 

That  we  are  sick  to  greet : 
For   tiowers   that   grow  our   hands  be- 
neath 

"We  struggle  and  aspire,  — 
Our  hearts  must  die,  except  they  breathe 

The  air  of  fresh  desire. 

But,  brothers,  who  up  reason's  hill 

Advance  with  hopeful  cheer,  — 
0,  loiter  not,  those  heights  are  chill, 

As  chill  as  they  are  clear; 
And  still  restrain  your  haughty  gaze 

The  loftier  that  ye  go, 
Eeniembering  distance  leaves  a  haze 

On  all  that  lies  below. 


THE  PALM  AND  THE  PESTE. 

Beneath  an  Indian  palm  a  girl 

Of  other  blood  reposes ; 
Her  cheek  is  clear  and  pale  as  pearl. 

Amid  that  wild  of  roses. 

Beside  a  northern  pine  a  boy 

Is  leaning  fancy-bound. 
Nor  listens  where  with  noisy  joy 

Awaits  the  impatient  hound. 

Cool  grows  the  sick  and  feverish  calm. 
Relaxed  the  frosty  twine, — 

The  pine-tree  dreameth  of  the  palm. 
The  palm-tree  of  the  pine. 

As  soon  shall  nature  interlace 
Those  dimly  visioned  boughs, 

As  the.se  young  lovers  face  to  face 
Kenew  their  early  vows ! 


MARY  HOWITT. 

TIBBIE  INGLIS. 

Bonny  Tibhie  IngHs ! 

Through  sun  and  stormy  weather, 
She  kept  upon  the  broom y  hills 

Her  father's  flock  together. 


Sixteen  summers  had  she  seen,  — 

A  rosebud  just  unsealing; 
"Without  sori'ow,  without  fear, 

In  her  mountain  shealing. 

She  was  made  for  happy  thoughts, 
For  playful  wit  and  laughter; 

Singing  on  the  hills  alone. 
With  echo  singing  after. 

She  had  hair  as  deeply  black 

As  the  cloud  of  thunder ; 
She  had  brows  so  beautiful. 

And  dark  eyes  flashing  under. 

Bright  and  witty  shepherd-girl. 

Beside  a  mountain  water, 
I  found  her,  whom  a  king  himself 

"Would  proudly  call  his  daughter. 

She  was  sitting  'mong  the  crags, 
Wild  and  mossed  and  hoary; 

Reading  in  an  ancient  book 
Some  old  martyr  story. 

Tears  were  starting  to  her  eyes, 
Solemn  thought  Avas  o'er  her ; 

When  she  saw  in  that  lone  place 
A  stranger  stand  before  her. 

Crimson  was  her  sunny  cheek, 
And  her  lips  seemed  moving 

With  the  beatings  of  her  heart; — 
How  could  I  help  loving? 

On  a  crag  I  sat  me  down. 
Upon  the  mountain  hoary, 

And  made  her  read  again  to  me 
That  old  pathetic  story. 

Then  she  sang  me  mountain  songs. 

Till  the  air  was  ringing 
With  her  clear  and  warbling  voice, 

Like  a  skylark  .singing. 

And  when  eve  came  on  at  length, 
Among  the  blooming  heather, 

We  herded  on  the  mountain-side 
Her  father's  flock  together. 

And  near  unto  her  f^ither's  house 
I  said  "Good  niglit!"  with  sorrow, 

And  inly  wished  that  I  might  say, 
"We  '11  meet  again  to-morrow." 

I  watched  her  tripping  to  her  home; 
1  saw  her  meet  her  mother. 


182 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


"Among  a  thousand  maids,"  I  cried, 
"There  is  not  such  another!" 

I  wandered  to  my  scholar's  home, 
It  lonesome  looked  and  dreary ; 

I  took  my  books,  but  could  not  read, 
Methought  that  I  was  weary. 

I  laid  me  down  upon  my  bed, 
My  heart  with  sadness  laden  ; 

I  dreamed  but  of  the  mountain  wold, 
And  of  the  mountain  maiden. 

I  saw  her  of  the  ancient  book 

The  pages  turning  slowlj' ; 
I  saw  her  lovely  crimson  cheek, 

And  dark  eye  drooping  lowly. 

The  dream  was  like  the  day's  delight, 
A  life  of  pain's  o'erpayment : 

I  rose,  and  witli  unwonted  care. 
Put  on  my  Sabbath  raiment. 

To  none  I  told  my  secret  thoughts, 

Not  even  to  my  mother, 
Nor  to  the  friend  who,  from  my  youth. 

Was  dear  as  is  a  brother. 

I  got  me  to  the  hills  again  ; 

The  little  flock  was  feeding : 
And  there  young  Tibbie  Inglis  sat, 

But  not  the  old  book  reading. 

She  sat  as  if  absorbing  thought 
With  heavy  spells  had  bound  her, 

As  silent  as  the  mossy  crags 

Upon  the  mountains  round  her. 

I  thought  not  of  my  Sabbath  dress ; 

I  tliought  not  of  my  learning : 
I  thought  but  of  the  gentle  maid 

Who,  1  believed,  was  mourning. 

Bonny  Tibbie  Inglis ! 

How  her  beauty  brightened. 
Looking  at  me,  half  abashed. 

With  eyes  that  flamed  and  lightened ! 

There  was  no  sorrow,  then  I  saw. 
There  was  no  thought  of  sadness: 

0  life  !  what  after-joy  hast  thou 
Like  love's  first  certain  gladness? 

1  sat  me  down  among  the  crags, 

Upon  tlie  mountain  hoary ; 
But  read  not  then  tlie  ancient  book, — 
Love  was  our  pleasant  story. 


And  then  she  sang  me  songs  again, 
GUI  songs  of  love  and  sorrow  ; 

For  our  sufficient  happiness 

Great  charm  from  woe  could  borrow. 

And  many  hours  we  talked  in  joy, 
Yet  too  much  blessed  for  laughter : 

I  was  a  hajipy  man  that  day, 
Aud  happy  ever  after ! 


WILLIAM  HOWITT. 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  SWALLOW. 

And  is  the  swallow  gone  ? 

Who  beheld  it? 

Which  way  sailed  it? 
Farewell  bade  it  none  ? 

No  mortal  saw  it  go ;  — 

But  who  doth  hear 

Its  summer  cheer 
As  it  tlitteth  to  and  fro  ? 

So  the  freed  spirit  flies ! 

From  its  surrounding  clay 

It  steals  away 
Like  the  swallow  from  the  skies. 

Whither?  wherefore  doth  it  go? 

'T  is  all  unknown ; 

AVe  I'ecl  alone 
That  a  void  is  left  below. 


WILLIAM  LAIDLAW. 

[1780-1845.] 

LUCY'S  FLITTIN'. 

'T  WAS  when  tlie  wan  leaf  frae  the  birk- 

tree  was  fa'in, 
And  Martinmas  dowie  had  wound  up 

the  year, 
That  Lucy  rowed  up  her  wee  kist  wi'  her 

a'  in  't, 
And  left  her  auld  maister  and  neibours 

sae  dear: 
For  Lucy  had  served  i'  the  gleu  a'  the 

simmer ; 


UNKNOWN. 


183 


She  cam  there  afore  the  bloom  cam  on 

the  pea ; 
An  orphan  was  she,  and  they  had  been 
gude  till  her, 
Sure   that   was  the  thing  brocht  the 
tear  to  her  ee. 

She  gaed  by  the  stable  where  Jamie  was 
stannin' ; 
Eicht   sair  was  his   kind   heart    her 
Hittin'  to  see. 
"Fare  ye  weel,  Lucy!"  quo'  Jamie,  and 
ran  in  ; 
The  gatheriu'  tears  trickled  fast  frae 
her  ee. 
As  down  the  burnside  she  gaed  slow  wi' 
her  flittin', 
"Fare  ye  weel,  Lucy !"  was  ilka  bird's 
sang; 
She  heard  the  craw  sayin  't,  high  on  the 
trees  sittin', 
And  the  robin  was  chirpin  't  the  brown 
leaves  amang. 

"0,  what  is  't  that  pits  my  puir  heart  in 
a  flutter? 
And  what  gars  the  tears  come  sae  fast 
to  my  ee  ? 
If  I  wasna  ettled  to  be  ony  better, 

Then  what  gars  me  wish  ony  better  to 
be? 
I  'm  just   like   a  lammie  that  loses  its 
niither ; 
Nae  mither  or  friend  the  puir  lammie 
can  see ; 
I  fear  I  hae  tint  my  puir  heart  a'thegither, 
Nae  wonder  the  tear  fa's  sae  fast  frae 
my  ee. 

"Wi'  the  rest  o'  my  claes  I  hae  rowed  up 
the  ribbon. 
The  bonnie  blue  ribbon  that  Jamie  gae 
me ; 
Yestreen,  when  he  gae  me  't,  and  saw  I 
was  sabbin', 
I  '11  never  forget  the  wae  blink  o'  his  ee. 
Though  now  he  said  naething  but  '  Fare 
ye  weel,  Lucy  ! ' 
It  made  me   I    neither   could   speak, 
hear,  nor  see : 
He  couldna  say  mair  but  just,  *  Fare  ye 
weel,  Lucy  1 ' 
Yet  tliat  I  will  mind  tiU  the  day  tliat 
I  dee." 

The  lamb  likes  the  gowan  wi'  dew  when 
it 's  droukit ; 


The  hare  likes  the  brake  and  the  braird 
on  the  lea ; 
But  Lucy  likes  Jamie;  —  she  turned  and 
she  lookit. 
She  thocht  the   dear   place   she   wad 
never  mair  see. 
Ah,  weel  may  young  Jamie  gang  dowie 
and  cheerless ! 
And  weel  may  he  greet  on  the  bank  o' 
the  burn ! 
For  bonnie  sweet  Lucy,  sae  gentle  and 
peerless. 
Lies  cauld  in  her  grave,  and  will  never 
return ! 


UNKNOWN. 

SUMMER  DAYS. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 
We  walked  together  in  the  wood ; 

Our  heart  was  light,  our  ste])  was  strong, 
Sweet  fl^utterings  were  in  our  blood, 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long.       j 

We   strayed   from   morn   till  evening 
came ; 
We    gathered    flowers,    and    wove     us 
crowns ; 
We  walked  mid  poppies  red  as  flame, 
Or  sat  upon  the  yellow  downs ; 

And  always  wished  our  life  the  same. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 
We   leaped    the  hedge-row,  crossed  the 
brook ; 

And  still  her  voice  flowed  forth  in  song, 
Or  else  she  read  some  graceful  book. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 

And  then  we  sat  beneath  the  trees, 
With  shadows  lessening  in  the  noon  ; 

And  in  the  sunlight  and  the  breeze 
We  feasted,  many  a  gorgeous  June, 

While    larks    were    singing    o'er   the 
leas. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 
On  dainty  chicken,  snow-white  bread, 

We  feasted,  with  no  grace  luit  song ; 
We  plucked  wild  strawberries,  rijie  and 
red. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 

AVe  loved,  and  yet  we  knew  it  not,  — 
For  loving  seemed  like  breathing  then ; 


184 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTUKIES. 


We  found  a  heaven  in  every  spot; 
Saw  angels,  too,  in  all  good  men  ; 

And  dreamed  of  God  in  grove  and  grot. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long, 
Alone  1  wander,  uiuse  alone. 

I  see  her  not ;  but  that  old  song 
Under  the  fragr;int  wind  is  blown, 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long. 

Alone  I  wander  in  the  wood  : 
But  one  fair  spirit  hears  my  sighs; 

And  half  I  see,  so  glad  and  good, 
The  honest  daylight  of  her  eyes, 

That  charmed  me  under  earlier  skies. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long, 
I  love  her  as  we  loved  of  old. 

My  heart  is  light,  my  step  is  strong ; 
For  love   brings    back   those   hours   of 
gold, 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long. 


FRANCES  BROWNE. 

LOSSES. 

Ui-ON  the  white  sea-sand 
There  sat  a  pilgrim  band, 
Telling  the  losses  that  their   lives   had 
known ; 
While  evening  waned  away 
Fiom  breezy  clitf  and  bay, 
And  the  strong  tides  went  out  with  weary 
moan. 

One  spake,  with  quivering  lip, 
Of  a  fair  freighteil  ship, 
With  all  his  household  to  the  deep  gone 
down ; 
But  one  had  wilder  woe,  — 
For  a  fair  face,  long  ago 
Lost  in  the   darker   depths  of  a  great 
town. 

Thei'e   were   who   mourned  their 

youth 
With  a  most  loving  ruth, 
For  its  brave  hopes  and  memories  ever 
green  ; 
And  one  upon  the  west 
Turned  an  eye  that  would  not  rest. 
For   far-off  hills  whereon  its  joys  had 
been. 


Some  talked  of  vanished  gold. 
Some  of  proud  honors  told. 
Some  spnke   of  friends  that  were  their 
trust  no  more ; 
And  one  of  a  green  grave. 
Beside  a  foreign  wave, 
That    made   him   sit   so   lonely  on  the 
shore. 

But  when  their  tales  were  done, 
There  spake  among  them  one, 
A  stranger,  seeming  from  all  sorrow  free  : 
.  "Sad  losses  have  ye  met, 
But  mine  is  heavier  yet; 
For  a  believing  heart  hath  gone  from 
me." 

"Alas!"  these  pilgrims  said, 

"For  the  living  and  the  dead, — 
For  fortune's  cruelty,  for  love's  sure  cross, 

For  the  wrecks  of  land  and  sea ! 

But,  however  it  came  to  thee. 
Thine,  stianger,  is  life's  last  and  heaviest 
loss." 


EGBERT  NICOLL. 

[1814-1S37.] 

WE  ARE  BRETHREN  A'. 

A  HAPPY  bit  hame  this  auld  world  would 

be. 
If  men,  when  they're  here,  could  make 

shift  to  agree, 
An'  ilk  said  to  his  neighbor,  in  cottage 

an'  ha', 
"Come,  gi'e   me    your    hand, — we  are 

brethren  a'." 

I  ken  na  why  ane  wi'  anither  should  fight, 
When  to  'gree  would  make  ae  body  cosie 

an'  right, 
When  man  meets  wi'  man,  't  is  the  best 

way  ava. 
To  say,  "Gi'e  me  your  hand, — we  are 

brethren  a'." 

My  coat  is  a  coarse  ane,  an'  yours  may 
be  tine, 

And  I  maun  diink  Avater,  while  you  may 
(biid<  wine  ; 

But  we  baith  ha'e  a  leal  heart,  unspotted 
to  shaw : 

Sae  gi'e  me  your  hand,  —  we  are  breth- 
ren a'. 


EICHARD   H.    DANA. 


185 


The  knave  ye  would  scorn,  the  unfaithfu' 
deriile ; 

Ye  would  stand  like  a  rock,  wi'  the  truth 
on  your  side ; 

Sae  would  I,  an'  naught  else  would  I 
value  a  straw : 

Thengi'e  me  your  hand,  —  we  are  breth- 
ren a'. 

Ye  would  scorn  to  do  fausely  by  woman 
or  man  ; 

I  hand  by  the  right  aye,  as  wcel  as  I  can  ; 

"We  are  ane  in  our  joys,  our  aflections, 
an'  a' : 

Come,  gi'e  me  your  hand,  — we  are  breth- 
ren a'. 

Your  mother  has  lo'ed  you  as  mithers  can 
lo'e; 

An'  mine  has  done  for  me  what  mithers 
can  do; 

"We  are  ane  high  an'  laigh,  an'  we 
shouldna  be  twa : 

Sae  gi'e  me  your  hand,  —  we  are  breth- 
ren a'. 

"We  love  the  same  simmer  day,  sunny 
and  fair; 

Hame  !  0,  how  we  love  it,  an'  a'  that  are 
there ! 

Frae  the  pure  air  of  heaven  the  same  life 
w'f.  di'aw  : 

Come,  gi'e  me  your  hand,  —  we  are  breth- 
ren a'. 

Frail  shakin'  auld  age  will  soon  come 
o'er  us  baith. 

An'  creeping  alang  at  his  back  will  be 
deatli ; 

Syne  into  the  same  mither-yird  we  will 
fa': 

Come,  gi'e  me  your  hand,  — we  are  breth- 
ren a'. 


RICHAED  H.  DANA. 

[U    S.  A.] 

(From  "The  BrccANEER,"  published  in  1S27.) 
THE  ISLAND. 

The  island  lies  nine  leagues  away. 

Along  its  solitary  shore. 
Of  '"raggy  rock  and  sandy  bay, 

No  sound  but  ocean's  roar, 


Save,  where  the  bold,  wild  sea-bird  makes 

her  home. 
Her    shrill    cry    coming    through    the 

sparkling  foam. 

But  when  the  light  winds  lie  at  rest, 

And  on  the  glassy,  heaving  sea 
The  black  duck,  with  her  glossy  breast, 
Sits  swinging  silently ; 
How  beautiful !  no  ripples  break  the  reach, 
And  silvery  waves  go  noiseless  up   the 
beach. 

And  inland  rests  the  green,  warm  dell ; 
The  brook  comes  tinkling  down  its 
side ; 
From  out  the  trees  the  Sabbath  bell 
Eings  cheerful,  far  and  wide. 
Mingling  its  sound  with  bleatings  of  the 

flocks. 
That  feed  about  the  vale  among  the  rocks. 

Nor  holy  bell  nor  pastoral  bleat 

In  former  days  within  the  vale ; 
Flapped  in  the  bay  tlie  pirate's  sheet ; 
Curses  were  on  the  gale; 
Kich  goods  lay  on  the  sand,  and  murdered 

men ; 
Pirate  and  wrecker  kept  their  revels  then. 

But  calm,  low  voices,  words  of  grace, 

Now  slowly  fall  upon  the  ear; 
A  quiet  look  is  in  each  face, 
Subdued  and  holy  fear  : 
Each  motion  gentle;  allis  kindly  done;  — 
Come,  listen,  how  from  crime  this   isle 
was  won. 


THE  PIRATE. 

Twelve  years  are  gone  since  Matthew 
Lee 
Held  in  this  isle  unquestioned  sway ; 
A  daik,  low,  brawny  man  was  he ; 
His  law,  —  "It  is  my  way." 
Beneath  his  thick-set  brows  a  shai-p  light 

bi'oke 
From  small  gray  eyes ;  his  laugh  a  triumph 
spoke. 

Cruel  of  heart  and  strong  of  arm, 

Loud  in  his  sport  and  keen  foi-  spoil. 
He  little  recked  of  good  or  harm, 
Fierce  both  in  mirth  and  toil ; 
Yet  like  a  dog  could  fawn,  if  need  there 

were  ; 
Speak  mildly,  when  he  would,  or  look  in 
fear. 


186 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Amid  the  uproar  of  the  storm, 

And  by  the  lightning's   sharp,  red 
glare, 
Were  seen  Lee's  face  and  sturdy  form ; 
His  axe  glanced  quick  in  air : 
Whose  corpse  at  morn  is  tloating  in  the 
sedge  ?  ^ 

There 's  hlood  and  hair.  Mat,  on  thy  axe  s 
edge. 

THE  SPECTRE  HORSE. 

He  's  now  upon  the  spectre's  back, 

With  rein  of  silk  and  curb  of  gold. 
'Tis  fearful  speed!  —  the  rein  is  slack 
Within  his  senseless  hold  ; 
Upborne  by  an  unseen  power,  he  onward 

rides, 
Yet   touches   not   the   shadow-beast   he 
sti'ides. 

He  goeswithspeed  ;  he  goes  with  dread ! 
And  now  tliey 're  on   the   hanging 
steep ! 
And,  now  !  the  living  and  the  dead. 
They  '11  make  the  horrid  leap  ! 
The  horse  stops  short;  — his  feet  are  on 

the  verge. 
He  stands,  like  marble,  high  above  the 
surge. 

And,  nigh,  the  tall  ship  yet  burns  on. 
With  red,  hot  spars,  and  crackling 
llanie. 
From  hull  to  gallant,  nothing  's  gone. 
She  burns,  and  yet 's  the  same  ! 
Her  hot,  red   flame   is   beating,  all   the 

night. 
On  man  and  horse,  in  their  cold,  phos- 
phor light. 

Through  that  cold  light  the  fearful  man 

Sits  looking  on  the  burning  ship. 
He  ne'er  again  will  curse  and  ban. 
How  fast  he  moves  the  lip ! 
And  yet  he  does  not  speak,  or  make  a 

sound ! 
What  see   you,  Lee?   the  bodies  of  the 
drowned  ? 

"I  look  where  mortal  man  may  not,  — 

Into  the  chambers  of  the  deep. 
I  see  the  dead,  long,  long  forgot ; 
I  see  them  in  their  sleep. 
A  dreadful  power  is  mine,  which  none 

can  know 
Save  he  who  leagues  his  soul  with  death 
and  woe." 


Tlioumild,sadmother,— waningmoon, 

Thy  last,  low,  melancholy  ray 
Shines  toward  him.     Quit  him  not  so 
soon ! 
Mother,  in  mercy,  stay  ! 
Despair  and  death  are   with  him;   and 

canst  thou. 
With  that  kind,  earthward  look,  go  leave 
hiuTi  now  ? 

0,  thou  wast  born  for  things  of  love ; 

Making  more  lovely  in  thy  shine 
Whatc'enhou  look'st  on.    Stars  above, 
In  that  soft  light  of  thine. 
Burn  softer ;  earth,  in  silvery  veil,  seems 

heaven. 
Thou'rt   going   down!  — hast   left  lum 
unibrgiven ! 

The  far,  low  west  is  bright  no  more. 

How  still  it  is !   No  sound  is  heard 
At  sea,  or  all  along  the  shore, 
But  cry  of  passing  bird. 
Thouliving'thing,  — anddar'st  thou  come 

so  near 
These  wild  and  ghastly  shapes  of  death 
and  fear  ? 

Now  long  that  thick,  redlight  has  shone 
On  stern,  dark  rocks,  and  deep,  still 
bay. 
On  man  and  horse,  that  seem  of  stone, 
So  motionless  are  they. 
But  now  its  lurid  fire  less  fiercely  burns : 
The  night  is  going,  —  faint,  gray  dawn 
returns. 

That  spectre-steed  now  slowly  pales, 

Now  changes  like  the  moonlit  cloud ; 
That  cold,  tiiin  light  now  slowly  fails, 
Which  wrapiied  them  like  a  shroud. 
Both  ship  and  horse  are  lading  into  air. 
Lost,  mazed,  alone,  —  see,  Lee  is  stand- 
ing there ! 

The  morning  air  blows  fresh  on  him ; 

The  waves  dance  gladly  in  his  siglit ; 
The   sea-birds   call,    and    wheel,  and 
skim,  — 
0  l)lessed  morning  light ! 
He  doth  not  hear  their  joyous  call;  he 

sees 
No  beauty  in   the  wave,   nor  feels  the 
breeze. 


WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT. 


187 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

[u.  S.  A.] 

TO  A  WATERFOWL. 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew, 
While  glow  the   heavens  with  the  last 

steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou 
pursue 
Thy  solitary  way? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 
Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee 

wrong. 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky. 

Thy  tigure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean  side  ? 

There  is  a  Power,  whose  care 
Teaches   thy   way   along    that  pathless 

coast,  — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air, — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmos- 
phere ; 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land. 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and 

rest, 
And  scream   among  thy  fellows;   reeds 
shall  bend 
Soon  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou  'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form ;  yet  on  my 

heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast 
given, 
And  shall  not  soon  depart : 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone. 
Guides  through   the  boundless  sky  thy 

certain  flight. 
In  the  long  way  that  J  must  tread  alone, 

WiU  lead  my  steps  aright. 


THANATOPSIS. 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she 

speaks 
A  various  language  :  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty ;  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings  with  a  mild 
And  gentle  symj)athy  that  steals  away 
Their  sliarjjness  ere  he  is  aware.     When 

thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow 

house. 
Make  thee  to  shudder  and  grow  sick  at 

heart, 
Go  forth  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To   Nature's   teachings,  while  from   all 

around  — 
Earth,  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of 

air  — 
Comes  a  still  voice,  — Yet  a  few  days,  and 

thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold 

ground. 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid  with  many 

tears. 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee, 

shall  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering 

Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements; 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock. 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod  which  the  rude 

swain 
Turns  with  his  share  and  treads  upon. 

The  oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce 

thy  mould. 
Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou    retire    alone, — nor   couldst 

thou  wish 
Couch  moie  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie 

down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world,  — 

with  kings. 
The  powerful  of  the  earth,  —  the  wise, 

the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.  — The  hills, 


188 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


Eock-ril)hed,  and  ancient  as  the  sun ;  the 

vales 
Stretching     in     pensive    quietness    be- 
tween ; 
The  venerable  woods ;  rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That    make    the    meadows    green ;    and, 

poured  round  all, 
Old  ocean's  gi"ay  and  melancholy  waste,  — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden 

sun. 
The    planets,    all   the    infinite    host   of 

heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that 

tread 
The  globe  are  bnt  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its    bosom.     Take  the 

wings 
Of  morning,  and  the  Barcan  desert  pierce, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  tlie  continuous  woods 
Where   rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  uo 

sound 
Save  his  own  dashings,  — yet  the  dead  are 

there  ! 
And  millions  in   those  solitudes,  since 

first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them 

down 
In  their  last  sleep,  — the  dead  reign  there 

alone ! 
So  shalt  thou  rest, — and  what  if  thou 

shalt  fall 
Unnoticed  by  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure?     All  that 

breathe 
"Will  share  thy  destiny.      The  gay  will 

laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood 

of  cai-e 
Plod  on,  and  each  one,  as  before,  will 

chase 
His  favorite  phantom  ;  yet  all  these  shall 

leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and 

shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the 

long  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men  — 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he 

who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and 

maid. 
The  bowed  with  age,  the  infant  in  the 

smiles 
And  beauty  of  its  innocent  age  cut  off — 


Shall  one  by  one   be   gathered   to  thy 

side 
By  those  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow 

them. 
So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes 

to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan  that  moves 
To  the  pale  realms  of  shade,  where  each 

shall  take 
His    chamber    in    the    silent    halls    of 

death. 
Thou  go  not,   like    the   quarry-slave  at 

night. 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained 

and  soothed 
By  an   unfaltering   trust,  approach  thy 

gi-ave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his 

couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant 

dreams. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

The  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  sad- 
dest of  the  year, 

Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and 
meadows  brown  and  sere. 

Heaped  in  the  hollowsof  the  grove,  the 
withered  leave.f'ne  dead ; 

They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to 
the  rabbit's  tread. 

The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and 
from  the  shrubs  the  jay  ; 

And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow 
through  all  the  gloomy  day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young 
flowers,  that  lately  sprang  and 
stood, 

In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a  beau- 
teous sistei'hood  ? 

Alas !  they  all  are  in  their  graves  ;  the 
gentle  race  of  flowers 

Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the 
fair  and  good  of  ours. 

The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie ;  but 
the  cold  November  rain 

Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the 
lovely  ones  again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  per- 
ished long  ago ; 

And  the  brier-roso  and  the  orchis  died 
amid  the  summer  glow ; 


WILLIAM   CULLEN   BEYANT. 


189 


But  on  tlie  hill  the  golden-rod,  and  the 

aster  in  the  wood, 
And  the  yellow  sunHower  by  the  hrook 

in  autumn  beauty  stood. 
Till  fell   the  frost  from  the  clear,  cold 

heaven,    as   falls   the   plague   on 

men, 
And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was 

gone  from  upland,  glade,  and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm,  mild  day, 

as  still  such  days  will  come. 
To  call  tlie  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out 

their  winter  home ; 
When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard, 

thougli  all  the  trees  are  still, 
And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters 

of  the  rill,  — 
The  south-wind  searches  for  the  flowers 

whose  fragrance  late  he  bore, 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and 

by  the  stieam  no  more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youth- 
ful beauty  died, 

The  fair,  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and 
faded  by  my  side : 

In  the  cold,  moist  earth  we  laid  her  when 
the  forest  cast  the  leaf. 

And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should 
have  a  life  so  brief; 

Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one,  like  that 
young  friend  of  ouis. 

So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish 
with  the  flowers. 


TO  THE  FRINGED  GENTIAN. 

Thou  blossom  bright  with  autumn  dew. 
And  colored  with  the  heaven's  own  blue, 
That  openest  when  the  quiet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night,  — 

Thou  comest  not  when  violets  lean 
O'er  wanderingbrooksand  springs  unseen, 
Or  columl)ines,  in  purple  diTst, 
Kod  o'er  the  ground-bird's  hidden  nest. 

Thou  waitest  late,  and  com'st  alone, 
When  woods  are  bare,  and  birds  are  flown. 
And  frosts  and  shortening  days  portend 
The  aged  year  is  near  its  end. 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Look  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky, 


Blue,  blue,  as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 

I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me, 
Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart, 
ilay  look  to  heaven  as  I  depart. 


THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 

Once  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  samls, 
Were  trampled  by  a  hurrying  crowd, 

And  fiery  hearts  and  aimed  hands 
Encountered  in  the  battle-cloud. 

Ah  !  never  shall  the  land  forget 

How    gushed    the    life-blood    of   her 
brave,  — 

Gushed,  warm  with  hope  and  courage  yet, 
Upon  the  soil  they  fought  to  save. 

Now  all  is  calm  and  fresh  and  still ; 

Alone  the  chirp  of  flitting  bird, 
And  talk  of  children  on  the  hill, 

And  bell  of  wandering  kine,  are  heard. 

No  solemn  host  goes  trailing  by 

The  lilack -mouthed  gun  and  stagger- 
ing wain ; 

Men  start  not  at  the  battle-cry,  — 
0,  be  it  never  heard  again ! 

Soon  rested  those  who  fought  ;  but  thou 
Who  minglest  in  the  harder  strife 

For  truths  which  men  receive  not  now, 
Thy  M^arfare  only  ends  with  life. 

A  friendless  warfare  !  lingering  long 
Through  weary  day  and  weary  year; 

A  wild  and  niany-weaponed  thiong 
Hang  on  thy  front  and  flank  and  rear. 

Yet  nerve  thy  spirit  to  the  proof, 
And  blench  not  at  thy  chosen  lot ; 

The  timid  good  may  stand  aloof. 

The  sage  may  frown, — yet  faint  thou 
not. 

Nor  heed  the  shaft  too  surely  cast. 
The  foUl  and  hissing  licit  of  scorn  ; 

For  with  thy  side  shall  dwell,  at  last, 
The  victory  of  endurance  born. 

Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  shall  I'ise  again,  — 
The  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers ; 


190 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


But  Error,  wounded,  writhes  in  pain, 
And  dies  among  his  worshippers. 

Yea,  though  thou  He  ui)on  the  dust, 
When  they  who  helped  thee  flee  in  fear, 

Die  lull  of  hope  and  manly  trust. 
Like  those  who  fell  in  battle  here ! 

Another  hand  the  sword  shall  wield, 
Another  hand  the  standard  wave. 

Till  from  the  trumpet's  mouth  is  pealed 
The  blast  of  triumph  o'er  thy  grave. 


FROM  "THE  RIVULET." 

And  T  shall  sleep ;  and  on  thy  side. 

As  ages  after  ages  glide. 

Children  their  early  sports  shall  try, 

And  ])ass  to  hoary  age,  and  die. 

But  thou,  uuc,hang(Ml  from  year  to  year, 

Gayly  slialt  play  and  glitter  here  : 

Amid  young  flowers  and  tender  grass 

Thy  endless  infaney  shalt  })ass ; 

And,  singing  down  thy  narrow  glen, 

Shalt  mock  the  fading  race  of  men. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  LOVE. 

Two  dark-eyed  maids,  at  shut  of  day, 
Sat  where  a  river  rolled  away, 
With  calm,  sad  brows,  and  raven  hair; 
And  one  was  pale,  and  both  were  fair. 

Bring  flowers,  they  sang,  bring  flowers 

unblown ; 
Bring  forest  blooms  of  name  unknown  ; 
Bring  budding  spraysfi'orn  woodand  wild. 
To  strew  the  bier  of  Love,  the  child. 

Close  softly,  fondly,  while  ye,  weep. 
His  eyes,  that  death  may  seem  like  sleep  ; 
And  fold  his  hands  in  sigu  of  rest. 
His  waxen  hands,  across  his  breast. 

And  make  his  grave  where  violets  hide. 
Where  star-flowersstrew  the  rivulet'sside, 
And  bluebirds,  in  the  misty  spring. 
Of  cloudless  skies  and  summer  sing. 

Place  near  him,  as  ye  lay  him  low, 
His  idle  shafts,  his  loosened  bow, 
The  silken  fillet  that  around 
His  waggish  eyes  in  s])ort  he  wound. 

But  we  shall  mourn  him  long,  and  miss 
His  ready  smile,  his  ready  kiss, 


The  patter  of  his  little  feet. 
Sweet   frowns    and   stammered   phrases 
sweet ; 

x\nd  graver  looks,  serene  and  high, 
A  light  of  heaven  in  that  young  eye: 
All  these  shall  haunt  us  till  the  heart 
Shall  ache  and  ache,  —  and  tears  will  start. 

The  bow,  the  band,  shall  fall  to  dust; 
The  shining  arrows  waste  with  rust ; 
And  all  of  Love  that  earth  can  claim 
Be  but  a  memory  and  a  name. 

Not  thus  his  nobler  part  shall  dwell, 
A  ])nsoner  in  this  narrow  cell; 
But  he,  whom  now  we  hide  from  men 
In  the  dark  grounil,  shall  live  again, — 

Shall  break  these  clods,  a  form  of  light. 
With  nobler  mien  and  ])urer  sight. 
And  in  the  eternal  glory  stand 
Highest  and  nearest  God's  right  hand. 


ELIZABETH    BAKRETT 
BROWNING. 

[1809-1861.] 

THE  SLEEP. 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  unto  souls  afar. 
Along  the  Psalmist's  music  deep. 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is 
For  gift  or  grace  surpassing  this,  — 
"He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep"  ? 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved? 
The  hero's  heart,  to  be  unmoved ; 
The  poet's  star-tuned  harp,  to  sweep; 
The  patriot's  voice,  to  teach  and  rouse; 
The    monarch's    crown,    to    light     the 

brows  ? 
"He  giveth  II is  beloved  sleep." 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved? 

A  little  fiith,  all  undisproved; 

A  little  dust,  to  overweep; 

And  bitter  menmries,  to  make 

The  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake. 

"He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

"Sleep  soft,  beloved  !"  we  .sometimes  say. 
But  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 


ELIZABETH   BAKRETT  BROWNING. 


191 


Sad  dreams  that  through  the  eyelids  creep. 
But  never  doleful  dreaur  again 
Shall  break  the  haj)py  slumber  when 
"He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

0  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises  ! 
0  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices ! 
O  delved  gold,  the  wallers  heap  ! 

0  strife,  O  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall ! 
God  strikes  a  silence  through  you  all, 
And  "giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill, 
His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still, 
Tliough  on  its  slope  men  sow  and  reap. 
Wore  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed, 
Or  cloud  is  doated  overhead, 
"He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

Ay,  men  may  wonder  while  they  scan 
A  living,  tliinking,  feeling  man, 
Conlirined  in  such  a  rest  to  keej) ; 
]jut  angels  say,  and  through  the  word 

1  think  their  happy  smile  is  heard,  — 
"He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

For  me,  my  heart,  that  erst  did  go 
!Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show, 
That  see  through  tears  the  mummers  leap, 
"Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close, 
"Would  childlike  on  His  love  re])ose 
"Who  "giveth  His  beloved  sleep!" 

And,  friends,  dear  friends,  when  it  shall 

be 
Tliat  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me. 
And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep, 
Let  one,  most  loving  of  you  all. 
Say,  "Not  a  tear  nmst  o'er  her  fall, — 
He  giveth  His  beloved  sleeji." 


BERTHA  IN  THE  LANE. 

Put  the  broidery-frame  away. 

For  my  sewing  is  all  done ! 
Tiie  last  thread  is  used  to-day. 

And  I  need  not  join  it  on. 

Though  the  clock  stands  at  the  noon, 

I  am  weary !  I  have  sewn, 

Sweet,  for  thee,  a  wedding-gown. 

Sister,  help  me  to  the  bed. 

And  stand  near  me,  dearest-sweet ! 
Do  not  shrink  nor  be  afraid, 

Blushing  with  a  sudden  heat ! 

No  one  standeth  in  the  street!  — 


By  God's  love  I  go  to  meet. 
Love  I  thee  with  love  complete. 

Lean  thy  face  down  !  drop  it  in 
These  two  hands,  that  I  may  hold 

'Twixt  their  palms  thy  cheek  and  chin, 
Stroking  back  the  curls  of  gold. 
'T  is  a  fair,  fair  face,  in  sooth,  — 
Larger  eyes  and  redder  mouth 
Than  mine  were  in  my  first  youth ! 

Thou  art  j'ounger  by  seven  years  — 
Ah  !  so  bashful  at  my  gaze 

That  the  lashes,  hung  with  tears. 
Grow  too  heavy  to  upraise ! 
I  would  wound  thee  by  no  touch 
Which  thy  shyness  feels  as  such — 
Dost  thou  mind  me,  dear,  so  much? 

Have  I  not  been  nigh  a  mother 
To  thy  sweetness, — tell  me,  dear, 

Have  we  not  lover!  one  another 
Tenderly,  fiom  year  to  year? 
Since  our  dying  mother  mild 
Said,  with  accents  undefiled, 
"Child,  be  mother  to  this  child!" 

Mother,  mothef,  up  in  heaven. 
Stand  up  on  the  jasper  sea, 

And  be  witness  I  have  given 
All  the  gifts  required  of  me;  — 
Hope    that    blessed    me,    bliss    that 

crowned. 
Love  that  left  me  with  a  wound, 
Life  itself,  that  turned  around ! 

Mother,  mother,  thou  art  kind. 
Thou. art  standing  in  the  room, 

In  a  molten  glory  shrined. 
That  rays  off  into  the  gloom  ! 
But  thy  smile  is  bright  and  bleak. 
Like  cold  waves,  —  1  cannot  speak ; 
I  sob  in  it,  and  grow  weak. 

Ghostly  mother,  keep  aloof 
One  hour  longer  from  my  soul. 

For  I  still  am  thinking  of 

Earth's  warm-beating  joy  and  dole ! 
On  my  finger  is  a  ring 
Which  I  still  see  glittering. 
When  the  night  hides  everything. 

Little  sister,  thou  art  pale  ! 

Ah,  I  have  a  wandering  brain,  — 
But  I  lose  that  fever-bale. 

And  my  thoughts  grow  calm  again. 

Lean  down  closer,  closer  still ! 


192 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


I  have  words  thine  ear  to  fill, 
And  would  kiss  thee  at  my  will. 

Dear,  I  heard  thee  in  tlie  spring, 
Thee  and  Robert,  through  the  trees, 

When  we  all  went  gathering 

Boughs  of  May-bloom  for  the  bees. 
Do  not  start  so  !  think  instead 
How  the  sunshine  overhead 
Seemed  to  trickle  through  the  sliade. 

What  a  day  it  was,  that  day ! 

Hills  and  vales  did  openly 
Seem  to  heave  and  throb  away, 

At  the  sight  of  the  great  sky ; 

And  the  silence,  as  it  stood 

In  the  glory's  golden  flood, 

Audildy  did  bud —  aud  bud  !  . 

Through  the  winding  hedge-rows  green, 
How  we  wandered,  I  and  you, — 

AVith  the  bowery  tops  shut  in. 

And  the  gates  that  showed  the  view ; 
How  we  talked  there  !  thrushes  soft 
Sang  our  pauses  out,  or  oft 
Bleatings  took  them  from  the  croft. 

Till  the  pleasure,  grown  too  strong, 
Left  me  muter  evermore ; 

Aud,  the  winding  road  being  long, 
I  walked  out  of  sight,  before ; 
And  so,  wrapt  in  musings  fond, 
Issued  (past  the  wayside  pond) 
On  the  meadow-lands  beyond. 

I  sat  down  beneath  the  beech 
Which  leans  over  to  the  lane, 

And  the  far  sound  of  your  speech 
Did  not  promise  any  pain  ; 
And  1  blessed  you  full  and  free. 
With  a  smile  stooped  tenderly 
O'er  the  May-flowers  on  my  knee. 

But  the  sound  grew  into  word 

As  the  speakers  drew  more  near — 

Sweet,  forgive  me  that  I  heard 
What  you  wished  me  not  to  hear. 
Do  not  weej)  so,  do  not  shake  — ■ 
0,  I  heard  thee,  Bertha,  make 
Good,  true  answers  for  niy  sake. 

Yes,  and  he  too  !  let  him  stand 

In  thy  tlioughts,  untouched  by  blame. 

Could  he  help  it,  if  my  hand 

He  liad  claimed  with  hasty  claim  ! 
That  was  wrong  perha]is,  hut  then 
Such  things  be,  — and  will,  again  ! 
Women  cannot  judge  for  men. 


Had  he  seen  thee,  when  he  swore 
He  would  love  but  me  alone? 

Thou  wert  absent,  — sent  before 
To  our  kin  in  Sidmouth  town. 
When  he  saw  tliee,  who  art  best 
Past  com[)are,  and  loveliest, 
He  but  judged  thee  as  the  rest. 

Could  we  blame  him  with  grave  words, 
Thou  and  I,  dear,  if  we  might  ? 

Thy  brown  eyes  have  looks  like  birds 
Flying  straightway  to  the  light ; 
Mine  are  older.  —  Hush  !  —  look  out— 
Up  the  street!     Is  none  without? 
How  the  poplar  swings  about ! 

And  that  hour  —  beneath  the  beech  — 
When  I  listened  in  a  dream. 

And  he  said,  in  his  deep  speech, 
That  he  owed  me  all  esteem,  — 
Each  word  swam  in  on  my  brain 
With  a  dhn,  dilating  pain. 
Till  it  burst  with  that  last  strain. 

I  fell  flooded  with  a  dark, 
In  the  silence  of  a  swoon  : 

When  1  rose,  still,  cold,  and  stark, 
There  was  night,  —  I  saw  the  moon ; 
And  the  stars,  each  in  its  place, 
Aiul  the  May-blooms  on  the  grass, 
Seemed  to  wonder  what  I  was. 

And  I  walked  as  if  apart 

From  myself  when  I  could  stand, 

And  I  pitied  my  own  heart. 
As  if  1  held  it  in  my  hand 
Somewhat  coldly,  with  a  sense 
Of  fulfilled  benevolence. 
And  a  "  Poor  thing  "  negligence. 

And  I  answered  coldly  too. 

When  you  met  me  at  the  door ; 

And  1  only  heard  the  dew 

Dripping  from  me  to  the  floor; 
And  the  flowers  I  bade  you  see 
Were  too  withered  for  the  bee,  — 
As  my  life,  henceforth,  for  me. 

Do  not  weep  so  —  dear  —  heart-warm  ! 
It  was  best  as  it  befell ! 

If  I  say  he  did  me  harm, 

I  speak  wild,  —  I  am  not  well. 
All  his  words  were  kind  and  good, — 
He  esteenuHl  me  !     Only  blood 
Runs  so  faint  in  womanhood. 

Then  I  always  was  too  grave, 
Liked  the  saddest  ballads  sung, 


ELIZABETH   BAEEETT  BEOWNING. 


193 


With  that  look,  besides,  we  have 
In  our  faces  who  die  young. 
I  had  died,  dear,  all  the  same,  — 
Life's  long,  joyous,  jostling  game 
Is  too  loud  for  my  meek  shame. 

We  are  so  unlike  each  other. 

Thou  aud  I,  that  none  could  guess 

We  were  children  of  one  mother, 
But  for  mutual  tenderness. 
Thou  art  rose-lined  from  the  cold, 
And  meant,  verily,  to  hold 
Life's  i)ure  pleasiu-es  manifold. 

I  am  pale  as  crocus  grows 

Close  beside  a  rose-tree's  root ! 

Whosoe'er  would  reach  the  rose 
Treads  the  crocus  underfoot ; 
I,  like  May-bloom  on  thorn-tree, 
Thou,  like  merry  summer-bee  ! 
Fit,  that  I  be  plucked  for  thee. 

Yet  who  plucks  me? — no  one  mourns; 
I  have  lived  my  season  out, 

And  now  die  of  my  own  thorns. 
Which  I  could  not  live  without. 
Sweet,  be  merry !     How  the  light 
Comes  and  goes !     If  it  be  night, 
Keep  the  caudles  in  my  sight. 

Are  there  footsteps  at  the  door  ? 
Look  out  quicklj\     Yea  or  nay? 

Some  one  might  be  waiting  for 
Some  last  word  that  I  might  say. 
Nay?     So  best !  —  So  angels  would 
Stand  off  clear  from  deathly  road, 
Not  to  cross  the  sight  of  God. 

Colder  grow  my  hands  and  feet : 
When  I  Mear  the  shroud  I  made. 

Let  the  folds  lie  straight  and  neat, 
And  the  rosemary  be  spread. 
That  if  any  friend  should  come, 
(To  see  thee,  sweet ! )  all  the  room 
May  be  lifted  out  of  gloom. 

And,  dear  Bertha,  let  me  keep 
On  my  hand  this  little  ring, 

Whicli  at  nights,  when  others  sleep, 
I  can  still  see  glittering. 
Let  me  wear  it  out  of  sight, 
In  the  gi-ave, —  where  it  will  light 
All  the  dark  up,  day  and  night. 

On  that  grave  drop  not  a  tear ! 

Else,  though  fathom-deep  the  place, 
Through  the  woollen  shroud  I  wear 

I  shall  feel  it  on  my  face. 
13 


Eather  smile  there,  blessed  one, 
Thinking  of  me  in  the  sun,  — 
Or  forget  me,  smiling  on ! 

Art  thou  near  me  ?  nearer  ?  so ! 
Kiss  me  close  upon  the  eyes, 

That  the  earthly  light  may  go 
Sweetly  as  it  used  to  rise, 
When  I  watched  the  morning  gray- 
Strike,  betwixt  the  hills,  the  way 
He  was  sure  to  come  that  day. 

So  —  no  more  vain  words  be  said ! 
The  hosannas  nearer  roll  — 

Mother,  smile  now  on  thy  dead,  — 
I  am  death-strong  in  my  soul ! 
Mystic  Dove  alit  on  cross. 
Guide  the  poor  bird  of  the  snows 
Through  the  snow-wind  above  loss ! 

Jesus,  Victim,  comprehending 
Love's  divine  self-abnegation. 

Cleanse  my  love  in  its  self-spending, 
And  absorb  the  poor  libation  ! 
Wind  my  thread  of  life  up  higher, 
Up  through  angels'  hands  of  lire!  — 
I  aspire  while  I  expire ! 


A  MTTSICAL  INSTRUMENT. 

What  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan, 
Down  in  the  reeds  by  the  river? 

Spreading  ruin  and  scattering  ban, 

Splashing  and  j)addling  with  hoofs  of  a 
goat. 

And  breaking  the  golden  lilies  afloat 
With  the  dragon-fly  on  the  river? 

He  tore  out  a  reed,  the  great  god  Pan, 
From  the  deep,  cool  bed  of  the  river, 
The  limpid  water  turbidly  ran, 
And  the  broken  lilies  a-dying  lay, 
And  the  dragon-fly  had  fled  away, 
Ere  he  brought  it  out  of  the  river. 

High  on  the  shore  sat  the  great  god  Pan, 
While  turbidly  flowed  the  river. 

And  hacked  and  hewed  as  a  great  god  can 

With  his  hard,  bleak  steel  at  the  patient 
reed, 

Till  there  was  not  a  sign  of  a  leaf  indeed 
To  prove  it  fresh  from  the  river. 

He  cut  it  short,  did  the  great  god  Pan, 
(How  tall  it  stood  in  the  river !) 


194 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTUrJES. 


Then  drew  the  jiith  like  the  heart  of  a 

man, 
Steadily  from  the  outside  ring, 
Tlien  notched  the  poor  dry  empty  thing 
In  holes,  as  he  sate  by  the  river. 

"This  is  the  way,"  laughed  the  great  god 
Pan, 
(Laughed  while  he  sate  by  the  river!) 
"Tlie  only  way  since  gods  began 
To   make   sweet  music,  they  could  suc- 
ceed." 
Then  dropping  his  mouth  to  a  hole  m 
the  reed. 
He  blew  in  power  by  the  river. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  0  Pan, 

Piercing  sweet  by  the  river ! 
Blinding  sweet,  0  great  god  Pan  ! 
The  sun  on  the  hill  forgot  to  die, 
And  the  lilies  revived,  and  the  dragon-fly 

Came  back  to  dream  on  the  river. 

Yet  half  a  beast  is  the  great  god  Pan, 
To  laugh,  as  he  sits  by  the  river, 

IVIaking  a  poet  out  of  a  man. 

The  true  gods  sigh  for  the  cost  and  the 
pain,  — 

For  the  reed  that  grows  nevermore  again 
As  a  reed  with  the  reeds  of  the  river. 


COWPER'S  GRAVE. 

It  is  a  place  where  poets  crowned  may 

feel  the  heart's  decaying. 
It  is  a  place  where   happy  saints   may 

weep  amid  their  praying : 
Yet  let  the  grief  and  humbleness,  as  low 

as  silence  languish ! 
Earth  surely  now  may  give  her_  calm  to 

whom  she  gave  her  anguish. 

0   poets!   from  a  maniac's  tongue   was 

poured  the  deathless  singing ! 
0  Christians  I   at  your  cross  of  hope  a 

hopeless  hand  was  clinging ! 
0  men !  this  man  in  brotherhood  your 

weary  paths  beguiling, 
Groaned  inly  while  he  taught  you  peace, 

and  died  while  ye  were  smiling ! 


And  now,  what  time  ye  all  may  read 
through  dimming  tears  his  story, 

How  discord  on  the  music  fell,  and  dark- 
ness on  the  glory, 


And  how,  when  one  by  one  sweet  sounds 
and  wandering  lights  departed, 

He  wore  no  less  a  loving  face  because  so 
broken-hearted ; 

He  shall  be  strong  to  sanctify  the  poet's 

high  vocation. 
And  bow  the  meekest  Christian  down  in 

meeker  adoration ; 
Nor  ever  shall  he  be,  in  praise,  by  wise 

or  good  forsaken ; 
Named  softly  as  the  household  name  of 

one  whom  God  hath  taken. 

With  quiet  sadness  and  no  gloom  I  learn 

to  think  upon  him. 
With  meekness   that  is  gratefulness  to 

God  whose  heaven  hath  won  him, — 
Who  suffered  once  the  madness-cloud  to 

His  own  love  to  blind  him ; 
But  gently  led  the  blind  along  where 

breath  and  bird  could  find  him ; 

And  wrought  within  his  shattered  brain 
such  quick  poetic  senses 

As  hills  have  language  for,  and  stars 
harmonious  intluences ! 

The  pulse  of  dew  upon  the  grass  kept 
his  within  its  number ; 

And  silent  shadows  from  the  trees  re- 
freshed him  like  a  slumber. 

Wild  timid  hares  were  drawn  from  woods 

to  share  his  home-caresses, 
Uplooking  to  his  human  eyes  with  sylvan 

tendernesses : 
The   very   world,  by    God's   constraint, 

from  falsehood's  ways  removing, 
Its  women  and  its  men  became,  beside 

him,  true  and  loving. 

But  though  in  blindness  he  remained 

unconscious  of  that  guiding. 
And  things  provided  came  without  the 

sweet  sense  of  providing. 
He   testified   this   solemn    truth,   while 

frenzy  desolated,  — 
Nor  man  nor  nature  satisfy  whom  only 

God  created ! 

Like  a  sick  child  that  knoweth  not  his 

mother  while  she  blesses, 
And  drops  upon  his  burning  brow  the 

coolness  of  her  kisses ; 
That  turns  his  fevered  eyes  around,  "My 

mother!  where's  my  mother?" — ■ 
As  if  such  tender  words  and  deeds  could 

come  from  any  other !  — 


"WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. — ALFRED  TENNYSON.      195 


Tlie  fever  gone,  with  leaps  of  heart  he 

sees  her  bending  o'er  him  ; 
Her  face  all  pale  from  watchful  love,  the 

unweary  love  she  bore  him!  — 
Thus  woke  the  poet  from  the  dream  his 

life's  long  fever  gave  him, 
Beneath  those  deep  pathetic  Eyes,  which 

closed  in  death  to  save  him ! 

Thus?    0,  not  thus  !  no  type  of  earth  can 

image  that  awaking, 
Wherein  he  scarcely  heard  the  chant  of 

seraphs,  round  him  breaking. 
Or  felt  the  new  immortal  throb  of  soul 

from  body  parted ; 
But  felt  those  eyes  alone,  and  knew  '^3Iy 

Saviour !  not  deserted !" 

Deserted !  who  hath  dreamt  that  when 

the  cross  in  darkness  rested 
Upon  the  Victim's  hidden  face,  no  love 

was  manifested  ? 
"What   frantic  hands  outstretched  have 

e'er  the  atoning  drops  averted, 
What  tears  have  washed  them  from  the 

soul,  that  one  should  be  deserted  ? 

Deserted !  God  could  separate  from  his 

own  essence  rather : 
And  Adam's  sins  have  swept  between  the 

righteous  Son  and  Father; 
Yea,  once,  Immanuel's  orphaned  cry  his 

universe  hath  shaken,  — 
It  went  up  single,  echoless,  "My  God,  I 

am  forsaken !" 

It  went  up  from  the  Holy's  lips  amid  his 

lost  creation. 
That,  of  the  lost,  no  son  should  use  those 

words  of  desolation ; 
That  earth's  worst  frenzies,  marring  hope, 

should  mar  not  hope's  fruition. 
And  I,  on  Cowper's  grave,  should  see  his 

rapture  in  a  vision ! 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE 
THACKERAY. 

[1811-1863.] 

AT  THE  CmjRCH  GATE. 

Although  I  enter  not. 
Yet  round  about  the  spot 
Ofttimes  I  hover; 


And  near  the  sacred  gate, 

With  longing  eyes  I  wait. 

Expectant  of  her. 

The  minster  bell  tolls  out 
Above  the  city's  rout. 

And  noise  and  humming ; 
They  've  hushed  the  minster  bell : 
The  organ  'gins  to  swell ; 

She  's  coming,  she 's  coming ! 

My  lady  comes  at  last. 
Timid  and  stepping  fast, 

And  hastening  hither, 
With  modest  eyes  downcast, 
She  comes,  — she 's  here,  she 's  past, 

May  Heaven  go  with  her ! 

Kneel  undisturbed,  fair  saint ! 
Pour  out  )^our  praise  or  plaint, 

Meekly  and  duly ; 
I  will  not  enter  there. 
To  sully  your  pure  prayer 

With  thoughts  unruly. 

But  suffer  me  to  pace 
Bound  the  forbidden  place, 

Lingering  a  minute 
Like  outcast  spirits  who  wait 
And  see  through  heaven's  gate 

Angels  within  it. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

MARIANA. 

With  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots 

Were  thickly  crusted,  one  and  all, 

The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 

That  held  the  peach  to  the  garden -wall. 
The  broken  sheds  looked  sad  and  strange, 
Unlifted  was  the  clinking  latch, 
Weeded  and  worn  the  ancient  thatch 
Upon  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  "My  life  is  dreary, 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said; 
She  said,  "I  am  aweary,  aweary; 
I  would  that  I  were  dead !" 

Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even ; 

Her  tears  fell  ere  the  dews  were  dried ; 
She  could  not  look  on  the  sweet  heaven. 

Either  at  morn  or  eventide. 


196 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTUPJES. 


After  the  flitting  of  the  hats, 

When  tliiekest  ihirk  diil  trance  the  sky, 
She  drew  lier  casement-curtain  hy, 
And  tjlanced  atliwart  tlie  glooming  Hats. 
She  only  said,  "The  night  is  dreary, 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said; 

She  said,  "I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead!" 

Upon  the  middle  of  the  night, 

Waking  she  heard  the  night-fowl  crow ; 
The  cock  sung  out  an  hour  ere  light : 

From  the  dark  fen  the  oxen's  low 
Came  to  her :  without  hope  of  change, 
In  sleep  she  seemed  to  walk  forlorn, 
Till  cold  winds  woke  the  gray-eyed  morn 
About  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  "The  day  is  dreary, 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said; 
She  said,  ' '  I  am  aweary,  aweary. 
And  I  would  that  I  were  dead !" 

About  a  stone-cast  from  the  wall 

A  sluice  with  blackened  waters  slept, 
And  o'er  it  manj^  round  and  small. 

The  clustered  marish-mosses  crept. 
Hard  by  a  poplar  shook  alway. 

All  silver-green  with  gnarled  bark. 
For  leagues  no  other  tree  did  dark 
The  level  waste,  the  roiinding  gray. 
She  only  said,  "My  life  is  dreary, 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said ; 

She  said,  "I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead !" 

And  ever  when  the  moon  was  low, 

And  the  shrill  winds  were  up  and  away. 
In  the  white  curtain,  to  and  and  fro, 

She  saw  the  gusty  shadow  sway. 
Ihit  when  the  moon  was  very  low, 

Audwild  winds  bound  within  their  cell, 
The  shadow  of  the  poplar  fell 
Upon  her  bed,  across  her  brow. 

She  only  said,  "The  night  is  dreary, 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said ; 
She  said,  ' '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead!" 

All  day  within  the  dreamy  house, 
Tlie  doors  upon  their  hinges  creaked. 

The  blue  fly  sung  i'  the  pane  ;  the  mouse 
Behind     the     mouldering     wainscot 
shrieked. 

Or  from  the  crevice  peered  about. 

Old  faces  glimmered  through  the  doors. 
Old  footsteps  trod  the  u])))er  floors, 

Old  voices  called  her  from  Avithout. 


She  only  said,  "My  life  is  dreary. 
He  cometh  not,"  she  said; 

She  said,  "I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead!" 

The  sparrow's  chirrup  on  the  roof. 

The  slow  clock  ticking,  and  the  sound 
Which  to  the  wooing  wind  aloof 

The  poplar  made,  did  all  confound 

Her  sense ;  but  most  she  loathed  the  hour 

When  the  thick-moted  sunbeam  lay 

Athwart  the  chambers,  and  the  day 

Was  sloping  toward  his  western  bower. 

Then,  said  she,  "I  am  very  dreary. 

He  will  not  come,"  she  said ; 
She  wept,  "1  am  aweary,  aweary, 
0  God,  that  I  were  dead!" 


"BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK  I" 

Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  0  Sea! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

0  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy. 
That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play! 

0  well  for  the  sailor  lad. 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 

But  0  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand, 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break. 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  0  Sea ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


MEMORY, 

I  CTJMB  the  hill :  from  end  to  end 
Of  all  the  landscape  underneath, 
I  find  no  place  that  does  not  breathe 

Some  gracious  memory  of  my  friend ; 

No  gi-ay  old  grange,  or  lonely  fold, 
Or  low  morass  and  whisi)ering  reed. 
Or  simple  stile  from  mead  to  mead. 

Or  sheepwalk  up  the  windy  wold ; 

Nor  hoary  knoll  of  ash  and  haw 
That  hears  the  latest  linnet  trill. 
Nor  (piarry  trenched  along  the  hill. 

And  haunted  by  the  wrangling  daw. 


ALFEED   TENNYSON. 


197 


ITnwatchecl,  the  garden  bougli  sliall  sway, 
The  tender  bhjssom  flutter  down ; 
Unloved,  that  beech  will  gather  brown. 

This  maple  burn  itself  away ; 

Unloved,  the  sunflower,  shining  fair, 
Ray  round  with  flames  her  disk  of  seed, 
And  many  a  rose-carnation  feed 

With  sunnuer  spice  the  humming  air ; 

Unloved,  by  many  a  sandy  bar. 

The  brook  shall  babble  down  the  plain, 
At  noon  or  when  the  lesser  Wain 

Is  twisting  round  the  polar  star ; 

Uncared  for,  gird  the  windy  grove. 
And  flood  tlie  haunts  of  hern  and  crake ; 
Or  into  silver  arrows  break 

The  sailing  moon  in  creek  and  cove ; 

Till  from  the  garden  and  the  wild 

A  fresh  association  blow, 

And  year  by  year  the  landscape  grow 
Familiar  to  the  stranger's  child ; 

As  year  by  year  the  laborer  tills 

His  wonted  glebe,  or  lops  the  glades ; 
And  year  by  year  our  memory  fades 

From  all  the  circle  of  the  hills. 


DOUBT. 

YoTJ  say,  but  with  no  toncli  of  scorn. 
Sweet-hearted,  you,  whose  light-blue 

eyes 
Are  tender  over  drowning  flies. 

You  tell  me,  doubt  is  Devil-born. 

I  know  not :  one  indeed  I  knew 
In  many  a  subtle  question  versed. 
Who  touched  a  jarring  lyre  at  first, 

But  ever  strove  to  make  it  true : 

Perplext  in  faith,  but  pure  in  deeds, 
At  last  he  beat  his  music  out. 
There  lives  moi'e  faith  in  honest  doubt. 

Believe  me,  than  in  half  the  creeds. 

He   fought    his    doubts    and    gathered 
strength, 
He  would  not  make  his  judgmentblind. 
He  faced  the  spectres  of  the  mind 

And  laid  them :  thus  he  came  at  length 

To  find  a  stronger  faith  liis  own ; 
And  Power  was  with  him  in  the  night, 


AVhich   makes   the  darkness  and  the 
light. 
And  dwells  not  in  the  light  alone, 

But  in  the  darkness  and  the  cloud, 
As  over  Sinai's  peaks  of  old. 
While  Israel  made  their  gods  of  gold, 

Although  the  trumpet  blew  so  loud. 


THE  LARGER  HOPE. 

0  YET  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill, 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will. 

Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood ; 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet ; 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroyed. 
Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 

When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete ; 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain  ; 
That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivelled  in  a  fruitless  fire, 

Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 

Behold,  -we  know  not  anything ; 
I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last  — far  oft"— at  last,  to  all. 

And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 

So  runs  my  dream :  but  what  am  I  ? 
An  infant  crying  in  the  night : 
An  infant  crying  for  the  light: 

And  with  no  language  but  a  cry. 


The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave, 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 

The  likest  God  within  the  soul  ? 

Are  God  and  Nature,  then,  at  strife. 
That  Nature  lends  such  evil  dreams  ? 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems, 

So  careless  of  the  single  life ; 

That  I,  considering  everywhere 
Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds, 
And  finding  that  of  fifty  seeds 

She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear, 

I  falttn-  where  I  firmly  trod, 

And  falling  with  my  weight  of  cares 


198 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs 
That  slope  through  darkness  up  to  God, 

I  stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and  grope, 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 
To  what  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all, 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 


"So  careful  of  the  type?"  but  no. 
From  scarped  cliff  and  quarried  stone 
She  cries,  "A  thousand  types  are  gone : 

I  care  for  nothing,  all  shall  go. 

"Thou  makest  thine  appeal  to  me : 
I  bring  to  life,  I  bring  to  death : 
The  spirit  does  but  mean  the  breath : 

I  know  no  more."     And  he,  shall  he, 

Man,  her  last  work,  who  seemed  so  fair. 
Such  splendid  purpose  in  his  eyes. 
Who  rolled  the  psalm  to  wintry  skies. 

Who  built  him  fanes  of  fruitless  prayer, 

Who  trusted  God  was  love  indeed 
And  love  Creation's  final  law,  — 
Though  Nature,  red  in  tooth  and  claw 

With  ravin,  shrieked  against  his  creed,  — 

Who  loved,  who  suffered  countless  ills, 
Who  battled  for  the  True,  the  Just, 
Be  blown  about  the  desert  dust. 

Or  sealed  within  the  iron  hills  ? 

No  more  ?     A  monster  then,  a  dream, 
A  discord.     Dragons  of  the  prime, 
That  tare  each  other  in  their  slime, 

Were  mellow  music  matched  with  him. 

0  life  as  futile,  then,  as  frail ! 

0  for  tliy  voice  to  soothe  and  bless! 

What  hope  of  answer,  or  redress? 
Behind  the  veil,  behind  the  veil. 


GARDEN  SONG. 

Come  into  the  garden,  ]\Tnud, 

For  the  black  bat,  niglit,  lias  flown, 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone; 

And    the    woodbine    spices   are   wafted 
abroad. 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 


For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves, 
And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high, 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she 
loves 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky. 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  she  loves. 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon ; 
All  night  has  the   casement  jessamine 
stirred 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune ; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

I  said  to  the  lily,  ' '  There  is  but  one 

With  whom  she  has  lieart  to  be  gay. 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone  ? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 
Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 

And  half  to  the  rising  day ; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

I  said  to  the  rose,  "The  brief  night  goes 
In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 

0  young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those. 
For  one  that  will  never  be  tliine? 

But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  sware  to  the 
rose, 
"For  ever  and  ever,  mine." 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my 
blood, 
As  the  music  clashed  in  the  hall ; 
And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood, 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to 
the  wood. 
Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all ; 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left 
so  sweet 

That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 

In  violets  blue  ns  your  eyes. 
To  the  woody  liollows  in  which  we  meet 

And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 
One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree; 

The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake 
As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea; 

But  th(^  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your 
sake, 


RALPH  WALDO   EMEESON. 


199 


Knowing  your  promise  to  me ; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 
They  sighed  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 

In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one ; 

Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with 
curls. 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 

There  has  fallen  a  sjilendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear ; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate ; 
The  red  rose  cries,  "She  is  near,  she  is 
near" ; 

And   the  white   rose  weeps,  "She   is 
late" ; 
The  larkspur  listens,  "I  hear,  I  hear"  ; 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "I  wait." 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet ; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  ti'ead. 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed ; 
M,y  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead ; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 


BtTGLE  SONG. 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 
And  snowy  summits  old  in  story  : 

The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes. 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 

Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes 

flying, 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dy- 
ing, dying. 

0  hark,  0  hear !  how  thin  and  clear. 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going ! 
0  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 

The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  reply- 
ing: 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dy- 
ing, dying. 

0  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 
They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  liver : 

Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  forever  and  forever. 


Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes 
flying,  _ 

And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dy- 
ing, dying. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

THE  APOLOGY. 

Think  me  not  unkind  and  rude, 
That  I  walk  alone  in  grove  and  glen ; 

I  go  to  the  god  of  the  wood 
To  fetch  his  word  to  men. 

Tax  not  my  sloth  that  I 

Fold  my  arms  beside  the  brook ; 
Each  cloud  that  floated  in  the  sky 

Writes  a  letter  in  my  book. 

Chide  me  not,  laborious  band, 
For  the  idle  flowers  I  brought; 

Every  aster  in  my  hand 

Goes  home  loaded  with  a  thought. 

There  was  never  mystery 

But 't  is  figured  in  the  flowers ; 

Was  never  secret  history 

But  birds  tell  it  in  the  bowers. 

One  harvest  from  thy  field 

Homeward  brought  the  oxen  strong ; 
A  second  crop  thy  acres  yield, 

Which  I  gather  in  a  song. 


TO  EVA. 

0  fair  and  stately  maid,  whose  eyes 
Were  kindled  in  the  upper  skies 

At  the  same  torch  that  lighted  mine ; 
For  so  I  must  interpret  still 
Thy  sweet  dominion  o'er  my  will, 

A  sympathy  divine. 

All,  let  me  blameless  gaze  upon 
Features  that  seem  at  heart  my  own ; 

Nor  fear  those  watchful  sentinels. 
Who  charm  the  more  their  glance  forbids, 
Chaste-glowing,  underneath  their  lids. 

With  fire  that  draws  while  it  repels. 


200 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


THINE   EYES  STILL  SHONE. 

Thine  eyes  still  shone  for  me,  thougli  far 
I  lonely  roved  the  land  or  sea: 

As  I  behold  yon  evening  star, 
Which  yet  beholds  not  me. 

This  morn  1  climbed  the  misty  hill, 
And  roamed  the  pastures  through  ; 

How  danced  thy  form  before  my  path, 
Amidst  the  deep-eyed  dew !     • 

When  the  red-bird  spread  his  sable  wing, 
And  showed  liis  side  of  flame,  — 

When  the  rosebud  ripened  to  the  rose,  — 
In  both  I  read  thy  name. 


EACH  AND  ALL. 

Little  thinks,  in  tlie   field,  yon  red- 
cloaked  clown 
Of  thee  from  the  hill-top  looking  down ; 
The  heifer  that  lows  in  the  upland  farm, 
Far-heard,  lows  not  thine  ear  to  charm ; 
The  sexton,  tolling  his  bell  at  noon. 
Deems  not  that  great  Napoleon 
Stops  his  hoise,  and  lists  with  delight, 
Whilst  his  tiles  sweep  round  yon  Alpine 

heiglit ; 
Nor  knowest  thou  what  argument 
Thy  life  to  thy  neighbor's  creed  has  lent. 
All  are  needed  by  each  one ; 
Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 
I  thought  the  sparrow's  note  from  heaven. 
Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder  bough  ; 
I  brought  him  home,  in  his  nest,  at  even  ; 
He  sings  the  song,  but  it  pleases  not  now. 
For  I  did  not  bring  home  the  river  and 

sky;— 
He  sang  to  my  ear,  —  they  sang  to  my 

eye. 
The  delicate  shells  lay  on  the  shore ; 
The  bubbles  of  the  latest  wave 
Fresh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave ; 
And  the  bellowing  of  the  savage  sea 
Greeted  their  safe  escape  to  me. 
I  wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam, 
I  fetched  my  sea-born  treasures  home ; 
But  the  poor,  unsightly,  noisome  things 
Had  left  their  beauty  on  the  shore. 
With  the  sun  and  the  sand  and  the  wild 

u]iroar. 
The  lover  watcluHl  his  graceful  maid, 
As  mid  the  virgin  train  slie  strayed, 
Nor  knew  her  beauty's  best  attire 


Was  woven  still  by  the  snow-white  choir. 
At  last  she  came  to  his  liermitage, 
Like  the  bird  from  the  woodlands  to  the 

cage  ;  — 
The  gay  enchantment  was  undone, 
A  gentle  wife,  but  fairy  none. 
Then  I  said,  "I  covet  truth; 
Beauty  is  unrijie  childhood's  cheat ; 
I    leave   it   behind   with  the  games  of 

youth." 
As  I  spoke,  beneath  my  feet 
The  ground-jiine  curled  its  pretty  wreath, 
Running  over  the  club-moss  burrs; 
I  inhaled  the  violet's  breath ; 
Around  me  stood  the  oaks  and  firs ; 
Pine-cones  and  acorns  lay  on  the  ground ; 
Over  me  soared  the  eternal  sky. 
Full  of  light  and  of  deity ; 
Again  I  saw,  again  I  heard. 
The  rolling  river,  the  morning  bird ; — 
Beauty  through  my  senses  stole ; 
I  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole. 


THE  PROBLEM. 

I  LIKE  a  church,  I  like  a  cowl, 
I  love  a  proiihet  of  the  soul. 
And  on  my  heart  monastic  aisles 
Fall  like  sweet  strains  or  pensive  smiles. 
Yet  not  for  all  his  faith  can  see 
Woidd  I  that  cowled  churchman  be. 

Why  should  the  vest  on  him  allure, 
Wliich  I  could  not  on  me  endure? 

Not  from  a  vain  or  shallow  thought 
His  awful  Jove  young  Phidias  brought; 
Never  from  li])s  of  cunning  fell 
Tlie  thrilling  i)el[)hic  oracle; 
Out  from  the  heait  of  nature  rolled 
The  burdens  of  the  Bible  old; 
The  litanies  of  nations  came. 
Like  the  volcano's  tongue  of  flame. 
Up  from  the  burning  core  below,  — 
The  canticles  of  love  and  woe. 
The  haiul  that  rounded  Peter's  dome, 
And  groined  the  aisles  of  Christian  Rome, 
Wrought  in  a  sad  sincerity. 
Himself  from  (Jod  he  could  not  free; 
He  builded  better  than  he  knew; 
The  conscious  stone  to  beauty  grew. 

Know'st  thou  what  wove  yon  wood- 
bird's  nest 
Of  leaves,  and  feathers  from  her  breast; 
Or  how  tlic  lisli  outbuilt  her  shell, 
Painting  with  morn  eacli  annual  cell; 
Or  how  the  sacred  pine-tree  adds 


EALPH  WALDO   EMEESON, 


201 


To  her  old  leaves  new  myri.'ids  ? 
Such  and  so  grew  these  holy  piles, 
Whilst  love  and  tenor  laid  the  tiles. 
Earth  proudly  wears  the  Partlienon 
As  the  best  gem  upon  her  zone ; 
And  morning  opes  with  haste  her  lids 
To  gaze  upon  the  Pyramids  ; 
O'er  England's  Abbeys  bends  the  sky 
As  on  its  friends  with  kindred  eye ; 
For,  out  of  Thought's  interior  sphere 
These  wonders  rose  to  upper  air. 
And  Nature  gladly  gave  them  place, 
Adopted  them  into  her  race, 
And  granted  them  au  equal  date 
With  Andes  and  with  Ararat. 

These  temples  grew  as  grows  the  grass ; 
Art  might  obey,  but  not  surpass. 
The  passive  Master  lent  his  hand 
To  the  vast  Soul  that  o'er  him  planned. 
And  the   same   power  that  reared  the 

shrine, 
Bestrode  the  tribes  that  knelt  within. 
Ever  the  fiery  Pentecost 
Girds  with  one  liame  the  countless  host, 
Trances    the    heart    through    chanting 

choirs. 
And   through   the  priest  the  mind  in- 
spires. 
The  word  unto  the  prophet  spoken 
Was  writ  on  tables  yet  unbroken ; 
The  word  by  seers  or  sibyls  told, 
In  groves  of  oak  or  fanes  of  gold, 
Still  floats  upon  the  morning  wind, 
Still  whispers  to  the  willing  mind. 
One  accent  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
The  heedless  world  hath  never  lost. 
I  know  what  say  the  Fathers  wise,  — 
The  book  itself  before  me  lies,  — 
Old  Chrysostom,  best  Augustine, 
And  he  who  blent  both  in  his  line. 
The  younger  Golden  Lips  or  mines, 
Taylor,  the  Shakespeare  of  divines ; 
His  words  are  music  in  my  ear, 
I  see  his  cowled  portrait  dear, 
And  yet,  for  all  his  faith  could  see, 
I  would  not  the  good  bishop  be. 


BOSTON  HYMN. 

The  word  of  the  Lord  by  night 
To  the  watching  Pilgrims  came, 

As  they  sat  by  the  seaside. 

And  filled  their  hearts  with  flame. 

God  said,  I  am  tired  of  kings, 
I  sufl"er  them  no  more ; 


Up  to  my  ear  the  morning  brings 
The  outrage  of  the  pooi\ 

Think  ye  I  made  this  ball 

A  field  of  havoc  and  war. 
Where  tyrants  great  and  tyrants  small 

Might  harry  the  weak  and  poor? 

My  angel,  —  his  name  is  Freedom, — 
Choose  him  to  be  your  king ; 

He  shall  cut  pathways  east  and  west, 
And  fend  you  with  his  wing. 

Lo  !  I  uncover  the  land, 

Which  1  hid  of  old  time  in  the  West, 
As  the  sculptor  uncovers  the  statue 

When  he  has  wrought  his  best ; 

I  show  Columbia,  of  the  rocks 
Which  dip  their  foot  in  the  seas, 

And  soar  to  the  air-borne  flocks 
Of  clouds,  and  the  boreal  fleece. 

I  will  divide  my  goods ; 

Call  in  the  wretch  and  the  slave : 
None  shall  rule  but  the  humble. 

And  none  but  Toil  shall  have. 

I  will  have  never  a  noble. 

No  lineage  counted  great; 
Fishers  and  choppers  and  ploughmen 

Shall  constitute  a  state. 

Go,  cut  down  trees  in  the  forest, 
And  tiim  the  straightest  boughs  ; 

Cut  down  trees  in  the  forest. 
And  build  me  a  wooden  house. 

Call  the  people  together, 

The  young  men  and  the  sires, 

The  digger  in  the  harvest-field, 
Hireling,  and  him  that  hires ; 

And  here  in  a  pine  state-house 
They  shall  choose  men  to  rule 

In  every  needful  faculty. 

In  church  and  state  and  school. 

Lo,  now  !  if  these  poor  men 
Can  govern  the  land  and  sea. 

And  make  just  laws  below  the  sun. 
As  planets  faithful  be. 

And  ye  shall  succor  men  ; 

'T  is  nobleness  to  serve ; 
Help  them  who  cannot  help  again : 

Beware  from  right  to  swerve. 


202 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTUEIES. 


I  break  your  bonds  and  masterships, 

And  I  uni;hain  the  shive  : 
Free  be  his  heart  and  hand  henceforth 

As  wind  and  wandering  wave. 

I  cause  from  every  creature 

His  jiroper  good  to  How ; 
As  much  as  he  is  and  doeth, 

So  much  he  shall  bestow. 

But,  laying  hands  on  another, 
To  coin  liis  labor  and  sweat. 

He  goes  in  pawn  to  his  victim 
For  eternal  years  in  debt. 

To-day  unbind  the  captive, 

So  only  are  ye  unbound  ; 
Lift  up  a  people  from  the  dust, 

Trump  of  their  rescue,  sound ! 

Pay  ransom  to  the  owner. 
And  fill  the  bag  to  the  brim. 

"Who  is  the  owner?  The  slave  is  owner, 
And  ever  was.     Pay  him. 

O  North  !  give  liim  beauty  for  rags. 
And  honor,  0  .Soutli !  for  his  shame ; 

Nevada !  coin  thy  golden  crags 
With  Freedom's  image  and  name. 

Up !  and  the  dusky  race 

That  sat  in  darkness  long,  — 

Be  swift  their  feet  as  antelopes, 
And  as  behemoth  strong. 

Come,  East  and  West  and  North, 

By  races,  as  snowllakes. 
And  carry  my  purpose  forth, 

Which  neither  halts  nor  shakes. 

My  will  fulfilled  shall  be. 
For,  in  daylight  or  in  dark, 

My  thunderbolt  lias  eyes  to  see 
His  way  home  to  the  mark. 


THE  SOUL'S  PROPHECY. 

All  before  us  lies  the  way ; 

Give  the  past  unto  the  wind ; 
All  before  us  is  the  day, 

Night  and  darkness  are  behind. 

Eden  with  its  angels  bold, 

Love  and  flowers  and  coolest  sea, 
Is  less  an  ancient  story  told 

Than  a  glowing  prophecy. 


Li  the  spirit's  perfect  air. 

In  the  passions  tame  and  kind, 

Innooence  from  selfish  care. 
The  real  Eden  we  shall  find. 

When  the  soul  to  sin  hath  died. 
True  and  beautiful  and  sound. 

Then  all  earth  is  sanctified, 
Upsprings  paradise  around. 

From  the  spirit-land  afar 

All  disturbing  force  shall  flee  ; 

Stir,  nor  toil,  nor  hope  shall  mar 
Its  immortal  unity. 


EDGAR  A.  POE. 

[U.  S.  A.,  181I  -  1849.] 

THE  BELLS. 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells,  — ■ 
Silver  bells,  — • 
What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody 
foretells ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle. 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of  Eunic  rhyme, 
To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically 
wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells. 
Bells,  bells,  bells,  — 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of 
the  bells. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells. 
Golden  bells  ! 
Whata  world  of  happiness  their  harmony 
foretells ! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes. 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  wliile 
she  gloats 
On  the  moon ! 
0,  from  out  the  sounding  cells. 
What  a  gush  of  (Miphony  voluminously 
wells !   , 


KOBEKT  BROWNING. 


203 


How  it  swells ! 
How  it  dwells 
On  the  Future !  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells,  — 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the 
bells ! 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells,  — 
Brazen  bells ! 
What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbu- 
lency  tells ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak. 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 
Out  of  tune, 
lu  a  clamorous  apjiealing  to  the  mercy 

of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf 
and  frantic  fire. 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire. 
And  a  resolute  endeavor 
Now — now  to  sit  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
0,  the  bells,  bells,  bells. 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 
Of  Despair ! 
How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air ! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging. 
And  the  clanging. 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows ; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling, 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the   sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the 
anger  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells. 
Bells,  bells,  bells,  — 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the 
bells ! 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells,  — 
Iron  bells ! 
What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their 
monody  comjiels  ! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  ati'right 


At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their 
tone ! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 
And  the  people,  — ah,  the  people,  — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone. 
And  who,  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  inufiled  monotone. 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone,  — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman,  — 
They  are  neither  brute  norhuman,  — ■ 

They  are  Ghouls : 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls. 
Rolls 
A  ptean  from  the  bells ! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  pajan  of  the  bells ! 
And  he  dances  and  he  yells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  paean  of  the  bells,  — 
Of  the  bells : 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells,  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  — 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells. 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme. 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells,  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  — 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells. 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells,  — 
Bells,  bells,  bells,  — 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the 
bells. 


ROBERT  BROWNING. 


EVELYN  HOPE. 

BEATTTirrL  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead  ! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed ; 

She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranium- 
flower. 
Beginning  to  die,  too,  in  the  glass. 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think,  — - 


204 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may  pass 
Save  two  long  rays  through  the  hinge's 
chink. 

Sixteen  years  ohl  when  she  died ! 

Perhaps  she  had   scarcely  heard  my 
name,  — 
It  was  not  her  time  to  love  :  beside, 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim, 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares, 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir,  — 
Till  God's  hand  beckoned  unawares, 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 

Is  it  too  late  then,  Eveljm  Hope? 

What,  your  soul  was  pure  and  true, 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire,  and  dew,  — 
And  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old. 

And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged 
so  wide. 
Each  was  naught  to  each,  must  I  be  told  ? 

We  were  fellow  mortals,  naught  beside  ? 

No,  indeed  !  for  God  above 

Is  gi-eat  to  grant  as  mighty  to  make, 
And  creates  thi;  love  to  reward  the  love,  — 

I  claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love's  sake ! 
Delayed  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet, 

Thi'ough  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a 
few,  — 
Much  is  to  learn  and  much  to  forget 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 

But  the  time  will  come,  — at  last  it  will. 
When,  Evelyn  Hope,  what  meant,  I 
shall  say. 
In  the  lower  earth,  in  the-years  long  still. 
That  liody  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay  ? 
Why  your  hair  was  amber,  I  shall  divine, 
And  your  mouth  of  your  own  gera- 
nium's red,  — 
And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in  fine. 
In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's 
stead. 

I  have  lived,  I  shall  say,  so  much  since 
then. 

Given  up  myself  so  many  times, 
Gained  nie  the  gains  of  various  men, 

Ransacked     the     ages,     spoiled     the 
climes  ; 
Yetone  tliiiig,one,  in  my  soul'sfull  scope, 

Either  I  missed  or  itself  missed  me  — 
And  1  want  and  fiiul  you,  Evelyn  Hope ! 

What  is  the  issue  ?  let  us  see ! 


I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while  ; 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold,  — 
There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank 
young  smile 
And  the  red   young  mouth   and  the 
hair's  young  gold. 
So,  hush,  —  I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to 
keep,  — 
See,  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet  cold  hand. 
There,  that  is  our  secret !  go  to  sleep ; 
You  will   wake,  and  remember,  and 
understand. 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA. 

Grow  old  along  with  me ! 

The  best  is  yet  to  be. 

The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was 

made : 
Our  times  are  in  His  hand 
Who  saith,  "A  whole  I  planned. 
Youth  shows  but  half;   trust  God:  see 

all,  nor  be  afraid  !" 

Not  that,  amassing  flowers. 
Youth  sighed,  "Which  rose  make  ours. 
Which  lily  leave  and  then  as  best  recall  'i" 
Not  that,  admiring  stars. 
It  yearned,  "  Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars ; 
Mine  be  some  figured  flame  which  blends, 
transcends  them  all ! " 

Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears, 
Annulling  youth's  brief  years. 
Do  1  remonstrate,  —  folly  wide  the  mark  ! 
Rather  I  prize  the  doubt 
Low  kinds  exist  without, 
Finished  and  finite  clods,  untroubled  by 
a  spark. 

Poor  vaunt  of  life  indeed. 
Were  man  but  formed  to  feed 
On  joy,  to  solely  seek  and  find  and  feast ; 
Such  feasting  ended,  then 
As  sure  an  end  to  men  ; 
Irks  care  the  crop-full  bird  ?    Frets  doubt 
the  maw-crammed  beast  ? 

Rejoice  we  are  allied 
To  That  winch  doth  provide 
And  not  ])artake,  eflcct  and  not  receive ! 
A  spark  disturl)s  our  clod; 
Nearer  we  hold  of  God 
Who  gives,  than  of  his  tribes  that  take, 
I  must  believe. 


ROBERT  BROWNING. 


205 


Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 

That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 

Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand, 

hut  go ! 
Be  our  joys  three  parts  pain  ! 
Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain ; 
Learn,  nor  account  the  pang ;  dare,  never 

grudge  the  throe ! 

For  thence —  a  paradox 
Which  comforts  while  it  mocks  — 
Shall  lite  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail : 
What  I  aspired  to  be. 
And  was  not,  comforts  me  : 
A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would 
not  sink  i'  the  scale. 

What  is  he  but  a  brute 

Whose  flesh  hath  soul  to  suit. 

Whose  spirit  works  lest  arms  and  legs 

want  play? 
To  man,  propose  this  test,  — 
Thy  body  at  its  best, 
How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its 

lone  way  ? 

Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use : 
I  own  the  Past  profuse 
Of  power  each  side,  perfection  every  turn : 
Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole. 
Brain  treasured  up  the  whole  ; 
Should  not  the  heart  beat  once,  "How 
good  to  live  and  learn  ?" 

Not  once  beat,  "Praise  be  Thine  ! 

I  see  the  whole  design, 

I,  who  saw  Power,  shall  see  Love  perfect 

too: 
Perfect  I  call  Thy  plan  : 
Thanks  that  I  was  a  man  ! 
Maker,  remake,  complete,  —  I  trust  what 

thou  shalt  do !" 

For  pleasant  is  this  flesh ; 
Our  soul,  in  its  rose-mesh 
Pulled  ever  to  the  earth,  still  yearns  for 

rest : 
Woidd  we  some  prize  might  hold 
To  match  those  manifold 
Possessions  of  the  brute,  —  gain  most,  as 

we  did  best ! 

Let  us  not  always  say, 

"Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 

I  strove,  made  head,  gained  ground  upon 

the  whole !" 
As  the  bird  wings  and  sings. 


Let  us  cry,  "All  good  things 
Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now, 
than  flesh  helps  soul ! " 

Therefore  I  summon  age 

To  grant  youth's  heritage, 

Life's  struggle  having  so  far  reached  its 

term  : 
Thence  shall  I  ^mss,  approved 
A  man,  for  aye  removed 
From  the  developed  brute ;  a  God  though 

in  the  germ. 

And  I  shall  thereupon 

Take  rest,  ere  I  be  gone 

Once  more  on  my  adventure  brave  and 

new : 
Fearless  and  unperplexed. 
When  I  wage  battle  next. 
What  weapons  to  select,  what  armor  to 

indue. 

Youth  ended,  I  shall  try 
My  gain  or  loss  therebj' ; 
15c  the  fire  ashes,  what  survives  is  gold: 
And  I  shall  weigh  the  same. 
Give  life  its  praise  or  blame  : 
Young,  all  lay  in  dispute;  I  shall  know, 
being  old. 

For  note,  when  evening  shuts, 
A  certain  moment  cuts 
The  deed  ott',  calls  the  glory  from  the  gray  : 
A  whisper  from  the  west 
Shoots,  "Add  this  to  the  rest, 
Take  it  and  tiy  its  worth  :  here  dies  another 
day." 

So,  still  within  this  life, 

Though  lifted  o'er  its  strife, 

Let  me  discern,  compare,  pronounce  at 

last, 
' '  This  rage  was  right  i'  the  main. 
That  acquiescence  vaiu : 
The  Future  1  may  face  now  I  have  proved 

the  Past." 

For  more  is  not  reserved 
To  man,  with  soul  just  nerved 
To  act  to-morrow  what  he  leams  to-day : 
Here,  work  enough  to  watch 
The  Master  work,  and  catch 
Hints  of  the  proper  craft,  tricks  of  the 
tool's  true  play. 

As  it  was  better,  youth 

Should  strive,  through  acts  uncouth, 


206 


SONGS   OF  THREE  CENTURIES. 


Toward  making,  than   repose  on  auglit 

found  made ; 
So,  better,  age,  exempt 
From  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 
Further.     Thou  waitedst  age ;  wait  death 

nor  be  afraid ! 

Enough  now,  if  the  Right 

And  Good  and  Infinite 

Be  named  here,  as  thou  call  est  thy  hand 

thine  own. 
With  knowledge  absolute, 
Subject  to  no  dispute 
From  fools  that  crowded  youth,  nor  let 

thee  feel  alone. 

Be  there,  for  once  and  all. 
Severed  great  minds  from  small, 
Announced  to  each  his  station  in  the 

Past! 
Was  I,  the  world  arraigned, 
Were  they,  my  soul  disdained. 
Eight?     Let  age   speak   the  truth  and 

give  us  peace  at  last ! 

Now,  who  shall  arbitrate  ? 

Ten  men  love  what  I  hate. 

Shun  what  I  follow,  slight  what  I  re- 
ceive ; 

Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes 

Match  me  :  we  all  surmise. 

They,  this  thing,  and  1,  that :  whom  shall 
my  soul  believe  ? 

Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 

Called  "work,"  must  sentence  pass. 

Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and  had 

the  price ; 
O'er  which,  from  level  stand, 
The  low  world  laid  its  hand. 
Found   straightway  to   its   mind,  could 

value  in  a  trice  : 

But  all,  the  world's  coarse  thumb 
And  finger  failed  to  plumb. 
So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  account ; 
All  instincts  immature, 
All  purposes  unsure. 
That  weighed  not  as  his  work,  yet  swelled 
the  man's  amount : 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed 

Into  a  narrow  act. 

Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and 

escaped ; 
All  I  could  never  be, 


All  men  ignored  in  me. 
This  I  was  worth  to  God,  whose  wheel 
the  pitcher  shaped. 

Ay,  note  that  Potter's  wheel. 

That  metaphor !  and  feel 

Why  time  spins  fast,  why  passive  lies  our 

clay,  — 
Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound. 
When  the  wine  makes  its  round, 
"Since  life  fleets,  all  is  change ;  the  Past 

gone,  seize  to-day!" 

Fool !     All  that  is,  at  all. 

Lasts  ever,  past  recall ; 

Earth   changes,  but  thy  soul   and   God 

stand  sure: 
What  entered  into  thee, 
That  was,  is,  and  shall  be : 
Time's  wheel  runs  back  or  stops :  Potter 

and  clay  endure. 

He  fixed  thee  mid  this  dance 

Of  plastic  circumstance. 

This  Present,  thou,  forsooth,  wouldst  faiu 

arrest : 
Machinery  just  meant 
To  give  thy  soul  its  bent, 
Try  thee  and  turn  thee  forth,  sufficiently 

impressed. 

What  though  the  earlier  gi'ooves 

Which  ran  the  laughing  loves 

Around  thy  base,  no  longer  pause  and 

press  ? 
What  though,  about  thy  rim. 
Skull-things  in  order  grim 
Grow   out,   in   gi-aver  mood,  obey   the 

sterner  stress? 

Look  not  thou  down,  but  up  I 

To  uses  of  a  cup, 

The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash,  and  trum- 
pet's peal. 

The  new  wine's  foaming  flow. 

The  Master's  lips  aglow  ! 

Thou,  heaven's  consummate  cup,  what 
needst  thou  with  earth's  wheel? 

But  I  need,  now  as  then, 

Thee,  God,  who  mouldest  men  ; 

And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl  was 

worst. 
Did  1  —  to  the  wheel  of  life 
With  shapes  find  colors  rife, 
Bound    dizzily  —  mistake    my  end,  to 

slake  Thy  tliirst : 


HENRY  W.   LONGFELLOW. 


207 


So,  take  and  use  Thy  work  ! 

Amend  wliat  Haws  may  lurk, 

What  strain  o'  the  stuff,  what  warpings 

past  the  aim  ! 
My  times  be  in  Thy  hand ! 
Perfect  the  cup  as  planned  ! 
Let  age   apj)rove   of  youth,  and  death 

complete  the  same! 


THE  LOST  LEADER. 

Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us ; 

Just  for  a  ribbon  to  stick  in  his  coat,  — 
Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  be- 
reft us, 
Lost  all  the  others  she  lets  us  devote. 
They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  doled  him 
out  silver, 
So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little  allowed. 
How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  ser- 
vice! 
Eags  —  were    they  purple,  his   heart 
had  been  proud ! 
We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed  him, 
honored  him, 
Lived  in  his  mild  and  magniiicent  eye, 
Learned  his  gi-eat  language,  caught  his 
clear  accents, 
Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to 
die! 
Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us. 
Burns,  Shelley,  were  with  us,  — they 
watch  from  their  graves ! 
He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the 
freemen ; 
He   alone   sinks  to  the  rear  and  the 
slaves ! 
We  shall  march  prospering,  —  not  through 
his  presence ; 
Songs  may  inspirit  us,  —  not  from  his 
lyre ; 
Deeds  will  be  done,  —  while  lie  boasts  his 
quiescence. 
Still  bidding  crouch  whom  the  rest 
bade  aspire. 
Blot  out  his  name,  then,  —  record   one 
lost  soul  more. 
One  task  more  declined,  one  more  foot- 
path untrod, 
One  more  triumph  for  devils,  and  sor- 
row for  angels, 
One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  in- 
sult to  God ! 
Life's  night  begins ;  let  him  never  come 
back  to  us ! 


There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation,  and 
pain. 
Forced  praise  on  our  part,  —  the  glimmer 
of  twilight, 
Never  glad,  confident  morning  again  ! 
Best  tight  on  well,  for  we  taught  him,  — ■ 
strike  gallantly, 
Aim  at  our  heart  ere  we  pierce  thiough 
his  own ; 
Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge 
and  wait  us. 
Pardoned  in  Heaven,  the  first  by  the 
throne ! 


HENEY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE. 

Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 
Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 
On  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  Seventy- 
five; 
Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 
Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year. 

He  said  to  his  friend,   "If  the  British 

march 
By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night. 
Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry  arcli 
Of  the  North  Church  tower  as  a  signal 

light,  - 
One,  if  by  land,  and  two,  if  by  sea ; 
And  I  on  the  opposite  shore  will  be. 
Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through   every  Middlesex  village   and 

farm. 
For  the  country  folk  to  be  up  and  to 

arm." 

Then  he  said,  "Good  night!"  and  with 

muffled  oar 
Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 
Just  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay, 
AVhere  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings  lay 
The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war ; 
A  phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar 
Across  the  moon  like  a  prison  bar. 
And  a  huge  black  hulk,  that  was  magni- 
fied 
By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 

Meanwhile,  his  friend,  through  alley  and 

street, 
Winders  and  watches  with  eager  ears. 


208 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Till  in  the  silence  around  liim  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack  door, 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers, 
Marchingdown  to  their  boats  outheshore. 

Then  he  climbed  the  tower  of  tlie  Old 

North  Church, 
P>y  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread, 
To  the  belfry-chamber  overhead, 
And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  percli 
On  the  sombre  rafters,  that  round  him 

made 
Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade,  — 
I5y  the  trembling  ladder,  steep  and  tall. 
To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall. 
Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 
A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town, 
And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  churchyard,  lay  the  dead, 
In  their  night-encampment  on  the  hill, 
\Vrai)i)ed  in  silence  so  deej)  and  still 
That  he  could  hear,  like  a  sentinel's  tread, 
The  watchful  night-wind,  as  it  went 
Creeping  along  from  tent  to  tent. 
And  seeming  to  whisper,  "All  is  well!" 
A  moment  only  he  feels  the  spell 
Of  the  place  and  the  hour,  and  the  secret 

dread 
Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead; 
For  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 
On  a  shadowy  something  far  away. 
Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay, — 
A  line  of  black  that  bends  and  floats 
On  the  rising  tide,  like  a  bridge  of  boats. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride. 
Booted  and  sj)urred,  with  a  heavy  stride 
On  the  opposite  shore  walked  Paul  Re- 
vere. 
Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side, 
Now  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and  near, 
Then,  impetuous,  stamped  the  earth, 
And  turned  and   tightened   his  saddle- 
girth  ; 
But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 
The  belfry-towerof  the  Old  Nortli  Church, 
As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 
Lonely  and  spectral  and  sombre  and  still. 
And  lo  !  as  he  looks,  on  thebelfry'sheight 
A  glinnner,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light ! 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he 

turns, 
]5ut  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns !    • 


A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street, 

A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the 
dark. 

And  beneath,  from  the  pebbles,  in  pass- 
ing, a  spark 

Struck  out  by  a  steed  flying  fearless  and 
fleet: 

That  was  all !  And  yet,  through  the 
gloom  and  the  light, 

The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night ; 

And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed, 
in  his  flight, 

KintUed  the  land  into  flame  vvith  its  heat. 

He  has  left  the  village  and  mounted  the 

steep. 
And  beneath  him,  tranquil  and  broad  and 

deep, 
Is  the  Mystic,  meeting  the  ocean  tides ; 
And  under  the  alders,  that  skirt  its  edge, 
Now  soft  on  the  sand,  now  loud  on  the 

ledge. 
Is  heard  the  tramp  of  his  steed  as  he  rides. 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock 
When  he  crossed  the  bridge  into  Medford 

town. 
He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock. 
And  the  barking  of  the  farmer's  dog, 
And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river  fog, 
That  rises  after  the  sun  goes  down. 

It  was  one  Ijy  the  village  clock, 
When  he  galloped  into  Lexington. 
He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 
Swim  in  the  mooidight  as  he  passed. 
And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank 

and  bare, 
Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare, 
As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 
At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon. 

It  was  two  by  the  village  clock 

When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord 

town. 
He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 
And  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees, 
And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze 
Blowing  over  the  me.adows  brown. 
And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 
Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  fall. 
Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead, 
Pierced  by  a  British  musket-ball. 

You  know  the  rest.     In  the  books  you 

have  read. 
How  the  British  Regulars firedand  fled,  — 


HENKY  W.   LONGFELLOW. 


209 


How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball, 
From  behind  each  fence  ami  farm-yard 

wall, 
Chasing  the  redcoats  down  the  lane. 
Then  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
And  only  pausing  to  lire  and  load. 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere ; 
And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry 

of  alarm 
To  every  Middlesex  village  and  fann,  — 
A  cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear, 
A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the 

door. 
And  a  word  that  shall  echo  forevermore  ! 
For,  borne  on  the  night- wind  of  the  Past, 
Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 
In  the  hour  of  darkness  and  peril  and 

need, 
The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 
The  hurrying  hoof-beats  of  that  steed 
And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Pie- 

vere. 


MAIDENHOOD. 

Maidkn  !  with  the  meek,  brown  eyes, 
In  whose  orbs  a  shadow  lies 
Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies ! 

Thou  whose  locks  outshine  the  sun, 
Golden  tresses,  wreathed  in  one. 
As  the  braided  streamlets  nin  ! 

Standing,  with  reluctant  feet. 
Where  the  lirook  and  river  meet, 
Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet ! 

Gazing,  with  a  timid  glance, 
On  the  brooklet's  swift  advance, 
On  the  river's  broad  expanse  ! 

Deep  and  still,  that  gliding  stream 
Beautiful  to  thee  must  seem, 
As  the  river  of  a  dream. 

Then  why  pause  with  indecision. 
When  bright  angels  in  thy  vision 
Beckon  thee  to  fields  Elysian  ? 

Seest  thou  shadows  sailing  by. 
As  the  dove,  with  startled  eye, 
Sees  the  falcon's  shadow  fly? 

Hearest  thou  voices  on  the  shore, 
That  our  ears  perceive  no  more. 
Deafened  by  the  cataract's  roar  ? 
14 


0,  thou  child  of  many  prayers  ! 

Life  hath  quicksands,  — Life  hath  snares ! 

Care  and  age  come  unawares ! 

Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune, 
ilorning  rises  into  noou, 
May  glides  onward  into  June. 

Childhood  is  the  bough,  where  slumliered 
Birds  and  blossoms  many-numbered;  — 
Age,  that  bough  with  snows  encumbered. 

Gather,  then,  each  flower  that  grows. 
When  the  young  heart  overflows, 
To  embalm  that  tent  of  snows. 

Bear  a  lily  in  thy  hand ; 

Gates  of  brass  cannot  withstand 

One  touch  of  that  magic  wand. 

Bear  through  sorrow,  wrong,  and  ruth, 
In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth, 
On  thy  lips  the  smile  of  truth. 

0,  that  dew,  like  balm,  shall  steal 
Into  wounds  that  cannot  heal. 
Even  as  sleep  our  eyes  doth  seal; 

And  that  smile,  like  sunshine,  dart 
Into  many  a  sunless  heart, 
For  a  smile  of  God  thou  art. 


A  PSALM  OF  LIFE. 

■WHAT  THE   HEART   OF  THE   YODNG   MAN   SAID  TO 
THE   PSALMIST. 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers. 
Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  ! 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real !     Life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 
Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way ; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

A  nd  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 


210 


SONGS    OF   THEEE    CENTURIES. 


In  the  world's  Isroad  field  of  battle, 

111  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle ! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead ! 
Act,  —  act  in  the  living  Present! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time  ;- 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 

A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing. 
With  a  heart  for  any  fate, 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing. 
Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 


RESIGNATION. 

There  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and 
tended. 

But  one  dead  lamb  is  there  ! 
There  is  no  fireside,  howsoe'er  defended. 

But  has  one  vacant  chair ! 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying, 
And  mournings  for  the  dead  ; 

The  heart  of  Rachel,  for  her  children 
crying. 
Will  not  be  comforted  ! 

Let  us  be  patient !     These  severe  afflic- 
tions 

Not  from  the  gi'ound  arise, 
But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 

Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and 
vajiors ; 

Amid  tlieso  earthly  damps 
What  seem  to  us  but  sad,  funereal  tapers 

May  be  heaven's  distant  lamps. 

There  is  no  Death  !     What  seems  so  is 
transition ; 
This  life  of  mortal  breath 


Is  but  a  suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 
Whose  portal  we  call  Death. 

She  is  not  dead,  — the  child  of  our  affec- 
tion, — 
But  gone  unto  that  school 
Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  pro- 
tection. 
And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 

In  that  great  cloister's  stillness  and  seclu- 
sion, 
By  guardian  angels  led. 
Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin's  pol- 
lution. 
She  lives,  whom  we  call  dead. 

Day  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 
In  those  bright  realms  of  air  ; 

Year  after  year,  her  tender  steps  pursu- 
ing. 
Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  do  we  walk  with  her,   and  keep 
unbroken 
The  bond  which  nature  gives. 
Thinking  that  our  remembrance,  though 
unspoken. 
May  reach  her  where  she  lives. 

Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her : 
For  when  with  raptures  wild 

In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her. 
She  will  not  be  a  child ; 

But  a  fair  maiden,  in  her  Father's  man- 
sion. 
Clothed  with  celestial  grace ; 
And  beautiful  with  all  the  soul's  expan- 
sion 
Shall  we  behold  her  face. 

And  though   at  times  impetuous  with 
emotion 
And  anguish  long  suppressed. 
The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like 
the  ocean, 
That  cannot  be  at  rest,  — 

We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feel- 
ing 

We  may  not  wholly  stay ; 
By  silence!  sanctifying,  not  concealing, 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 


HENKY  W.   LONGFELLOW. 


211 


SANTA  FILOMENA. 

Whene'er  a  noble  deed  is  wrought, 
Whene'er  is  spoken  a  noble  thought, 

Our  hearts,  in  glad  surprise, 

To  higher  levels  rise. 

The  tidal  wave  of  deeper  souls 
Into  our  inmost  being  rolls, 

And  lifts  us  unawares 

Out  of  all  meaner  cares. 

Honor  to  those  whose  words  or  deeds 
Thus  help  us  in  our  daily  needs. 
And  by  their  overflow 
Raise  us  from  what  is  low ! 

Thus  thought  I,  as  by  night  I  read 

Of  the  great  army  of  the  dead. 
The  trenches  cold  and  damp, 
The  starved  and  frozen  cauip,  — 

The  wounded  from  the  battle-plain, 

In  dreary  hospitals  of  pain, 
The  cheerless  corridors, 
The  cold  and  stony  floors. 

Lo  !  in  that  house  of  misery 

A  lady  with  a  lamp  I  see 

Pass  through  the  glimmering  gloom, 
And  flit  from  room  to  loom. 

And  slow,  as  in  a  dream  of  bliss. 
The  speechless  sufferer  turns  to  kiss 
Her  shadow,  as  it  falls 
Upon  the  darkening  walls. 

As  if  a  door  in  heaven  should  be 
Opened  and  then  closed  suddenly. 
The  vision  came  and  went. 
The  light  shone  and  was  spent. 

On  England's  annals,  through  the  long 
Hereafter  of  her  speech  and  song. 

That  light  its  rays  shall  cast 

From  portals  of  the  past. 

A  Lady  with  a  Lamp  shall  stand 
In  the  great  history  of  the  land, 

A  noble  type  of  good. 

Heroic  womanhood. 

Kor  even  shall  be  wanting  here 
The  palm,  the  lily,  and  the  spear. 

The  s\nnbols  that  of  yore 

Saint  Filomena  bore. 


HAWTHORNE. 

May  23,  1864. 

How  beautiful  it  was,  that  one  bright  day 

In  the  long  week  of  rain  ! 
Though  all  its  splendor  could  not  chase 
away 

The  omnipresent  pain. 

The  lovely  town  was  white  with  apple- 
blooms, 

And  the  great  elms  o'erhead 
Dark  shadows  wove  on  their  aerial  looms 

Shot  through  with  golden  thread. 

Across   the   meadows,  by  the   gray  old 
manse. 

The  historic  river  flowed : 
I  was  as  one  who  wanders  in  a  trance, 

Unconscious  of  his  road. 

The   faces    of   familiar  friends    seemed 
strange  ; 
Their  voices  I  could  hear. 
And  yet  the  words  they  uttered  seemed 
to  change 
Their  meaning  to  my  ear. 

Forthe  one  face  I  lookedforwas  not  there. 
The  one  low  voice  was  mute ; 

Only  an  unseen  presence  filled  the  air, 
And  baffled  my  pursuit. 

Now  I  look  back,  and  meadow,  manse, 
and  stream 

Dimly  my  thought  defines ; 
I  oidy  see  —  a  dream  within  a  dream — 

The  hill-top  hearsed  with  pines. 

I  only  hear  above  his  place  of  rest 

Their  tender  undertone, 
The  infinite  longings  of  a  troubled  breast, 

The  voice  so  like  his  own. 

There  in  seclusion  and  remote  from  men 

The  wizard  hand  lies  cold. 
Which  at  its  topmost  speed  let  fall  the  pen, 

And  left  the  tale  half  told. 

Ah !  who  shall  lift  that  wand  of  magic 
power. 
And  the  lost  clew  regain  ? 
The    unfinished   window    in   Aladdin's 
tower 
Unfinished  must  remain ! 


212 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


GERALD  MASSEY. 

TO-DAY  AND  TO-MORROW. 

HiOHhopestliatburnedlikestarssublime 
Go  down  the  heavens  of  Freedom, 

And  true  liearts  perish  in  the  time 
We  bitterliest  need  them  ! 

But  never  sit  wo  down,  and  say- 
There  's  nothing  left  but  sorrow; 

We  walk  the  wilderness  to-day. 
The  promised  land  to-morrow. 

Our  birds  of  song  are  silent  now, 
There  are  no  tlowers  blooming ; 

Yet  life  beats  in  the  frozen  bough. 
And  Freedom's  spring  is  coming ! 

And  Freedom's  tide  comes  up  alway, 
Though  we  may  stand  in  sorrow  ; 

And  our  good  bark  aground  to-day- 
Shall  float  again  to-morrow. 

Through  allthelong,  dark  nights  of  years 

The  people's  cry  ascendeth, 
And  earth  is  wet  with  blood  and  tears; 

But  our  meek  sufieranee  endeth ! 
The  few  shall  not  forever  sway, 

The  many  toil  in  sorrow ; 
The  powers  of  earth  are  strong  to-day, 

But  Heaven  shall  rule  to-morrow. 

Thonghheartsbroodo'erthepast,  our  eyes 

With  smiling  features  glisten  !_ 
For  lo  !  our  day  bursts  np  the  skies: 

Lean  out  your  souls  and  listen  ! 
The  world  rolls  Freedom's  radiant  way 

And  ripens  with  her  sorrow  ; 
Keep  heart !  who  bear  the  cross  to-day 

Shall  wear  the  crown  to-morrow. 


0  Youth !  flame  earnest,  still  aspire, 

With  energies  immortal ! 
To  many  a  heaven  of  desire 

Our  yearning  opes  a  portal : 
And  though  age  wearies  by  the  way, 

And  hearts  break  in  the  furrow, 
We  '11  sow  the  golden  grain  to-day. 

And  harvest  comes  to-morrow. 

Build  rip  heroic  lives,  and  all 
Be  like  a  slieathen  sabre, 

Ready  to  Hash  out  at  God's  call, 
0  chivalry  of  labor  ! 


Triumph  and  toil  are  twins ;  and  aye, 
Joy  suns  the  cloud  of  sorrow; 

And  't  is  the  martyrdom  to-day 
Brings  victory  to-morrow. 


JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

THE  GRAVE  BY  THE  LAKE. 

Where  the  Great  Lake's  sunny  smiles 
Dimple  round  its  hundred  isles. 
And  the  mountain's  granite  ledge 
Cleaves  the  water  like  a  wedge, 
Hinged  about  with  smooth,  gray  stones, 
Rest  the  giant's  mighty  bones. 

Close  beside,  in  .shade  and  gleam. 
Laughs  and  ripples  Melvin  stream ; 
]\I('lvin  water,  mountain- born. 
All  fair  llowers  its  banks  adorn ; 
All  the  woodland's  voices  meet. 
Mingling  with  its  murmurs  sweet. 

Over  lowlands  forest-grown, 
Over  waters  island-strown, 
Over  silver-sanded  beach. 
Leaf-locked  bay  and  misty  reach, 
Melvin  stream  and  burial-heap, 
Watch  and  ward  the  mountains  keep. 

Who  that  Titan  cromlech  fills? 
Forest-kaiser,  lord  o'  the  hills? 
Knight  who  on  the  birchen  tree 
Carved  his  savage  heraldry  ? 
Priest  o'  the  pine-wood  temples  dim, 
Fropliet,  sage,  or  -wizard  grim  ? 

Rugged  type  of  primal  man. 
Grim  utilitarian. 

Loving  -woods  for  hunt  and  prowl. 
Lake  and  hill  for  tish  and  fowl, 
As  the  brown  bear  blind  and  dull 
To  the  grand  and  beautiful : 

ISTot  for  him  the  lesson  drawn 
From  the  mountains  smit  with  dawn. 
Star-rise,  moon -rise,  llowers  of  May, 
Sunset's  ]iur])le  bloom  of  day, — 
Took  his  lih;  no  hue  from  thence, 
Poor  amid  such  atlluence  ? 

Hajdy  unto  hill  and  tree 
All  too  near  akin  was  he : 


JOHN   G.   WIIITTIER. 


213 


Unto  him  who  stands  afar 
Nature's  marvels  greatest  are ; 
Who  the  mountain  purple  seeks 
Must  not  climb  the  higher  peaks. 

Yet  who  knows  in  winter  tramp, 
Or  the  midnight  of  the  camp, 
What  revealings  faint  and  far, 
Stealing  down  from  moon  and  star, 
Jvindled  in  that  human  clod 
Thought  of  destiny  and  God? 

Stateliest  forest  patriarch, 
Grand  in  robes  of  skin  and  bark, 
What  sepulchral  mysteries. 
What  weird  funeral-rites,  were  his  ? 
What  sharp  wail,  what  dn^ar  lament, 
Back  scared  wolf  and  eagle  sent  'I 

Now,  whate'er  he  may  have  been, 
Low  he  lies  as  other  men ; 
On  his  mound  the  partridge  drums, 
Tliere  the  noisy  blue-jay  comes ; 
Jtank  nor  name  nor  pomp  has  he 
In  the  grave's  democracy. 

Part  thy  blue  lips,  Northern  lake ! 
Moss-grown  rocks,  your  silence  break ! 
Tell  the  tale,  thou  ancient  tree ! 
Thou,  too,  slide-worn  Ossipee ! 
Speak,  and  tell  us  how  and  when 
Lived  and  died  this  king  of  men  ! 

Wordless  moans  the  ancient  pine ; 
Lake  and  mountain  give  no  sign  ; 
Vain  to  trace  this  ring  of  stones ; 
Vain  the  search  of  crumbling  bones : 
Deepest  of  all  mysteries. 
And  the  saddest,  silence  is. 

Nameless,  noteless,  clay  with  clay 
Mingles  slowly  day  by  day ; 
But  somewhere,  for  good  or  ill. 
That  dark  soul  is  living  still ; 
Somewhere  yet  that  atom's  force 
Moves  the  light-poised  universe. 

Strange  that  on  his  burial-sod 
Harebells  bloom,  and  golden-rod, 
While  the  soul's  dark  horoscope 
Holds  no  starry  sign  of  hope  ! 
Is  the  Unseen  with  sight  at  odds  ? 
Nature's  pity  more  than  God's? 

Thus  I  mused  by  Melvin's  side, 
While  the  summer  eventide 


Made  the  woods  and  inland  sea 
And  the  mountains  mystery ; 
And  the  hush  of  earth  and  air 
Seemed  the  pause  before  a  prayer,  — 

Prayer  for  him,  for  all  who  rest, 
Mother  Earth,  upon  thy  breast,  — 
Lapped  on  Christian  turf,  or  hid 
In  rock-cave  or  pyramid : 
All  who  sleep,  as  all  who  live. 
Well  may  need  the  prayer,  "Forgive ! " 

Desert-smothered  caravan. 
Knee-deep  dust  that  once  was  man, 
Battle-trenches  ghastly  piled, 
Ocean-floors  with  white  bones  tiled, 
Crowded  tomb  and  mounded  sod, 
Dumbly  crave  that  prayer  to  God, 

0  the  generations  old 

Over  whom  no  church-bells  tolled, 

Christless,  lifting  up  blind  eyes 

To  the  silence  of  the  skies ! 

For  the  innumerable  dead 

Is  my  soul  disquieted. 

Where  be  now  these  silent  hosts  ? 
Where  the  camping-ground  of  ghosts? 
Where  the  spectral  conscripts  led 
To  the  white  tents  of  the  dead  ? 
What  strange  shore  or  chartless  sea 
Holds  the  awful  mystery  ? 

Then  the  warm  sky  stooped  to  make 
Double  sunset  in  the  lake ; 
While  above  I  saw  with  it. 
Range  on  range,  the  mountains  lit; 
And  the  calm  and  splendor  stole 
Like  an  answer  to  my  soul. 

Hear'st  thou,  0  of  little  faith. 
What  to  thee  the  mountain  saith. 
What  is  wliispered  by  the  trees  ?  — 
"Cast  on  God  thy  care  for  these; 
Trust  him,  if  thy  sight  be  dim : 
Doubt  for  them  is  doubt  of  him. 

"Blind  must  be  their  close-shut  eyes 
Where  like  night  the  sunshine  lies. 
Fiery-linked  the  self-forged  chain 
Binding  ever  sin  to  pain, 
Strong  their  prison-house  of  will, 
But  without  He  waiteth  still. 

"Not  ^\^th  hatred's  undertow 
Doth  the  Love  Eternal  How ; 


214 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Every  chain  that  spirits  wear 
C'mmbles  in  the  breath  of  prayer ; 
And  the  penitent's  desire 
Opens  every  gate  of  fire. 

"Still  thy  love,  0  Christ  arisen ! 
Yearns  to  reach  these  souls  in  prison  ? 
Through  all  depths  of  sin  and  loss 
Drops  the  plummet  of  thy  cross  ! 
Never  yet  abyss  was  found 
Deeper  than  that  cross  could  sound!" 

Therefore  well  may  Nature  keep 
Equal  faith  with  all  who  sleep, 
Set  her  watch  of  hills  around 
Christian  grave  and  heathen  mound, 
And  to  cairn  and  kirkyard  send 
Summer's  flowery  dividend. 

Keep,  0  pleasant  Melvin  stream, 
Thy  sweet  laugh  in  shade  and  gleam ! 
On  the  Indian's  grassy  tomb 
Swing,  0  flowers,  your  bells  of  bloom  ! 
Deep  below,  as  high  above. 
Sweeps  the  circle  of  God's  love. 


MY  BIRTHDAY. 

Br.NEATH  the  moonlight  and  the  snow 

Jjies  dead  my  latest  year ; 
The  winter  winds  are  wailing  low 

Its  dirges  in  my  ear. 

I  grieve  not  with  the  moanmg  wind 

As  if  a  loss  befell ; 
Before  me,  even  as  behind, 
God  is,  and  all  is  well ! 

II  is  light  shines  on  me  from  above, 
His  low  voice  speaks  within,  — 

The  patience  of  immortal  love 
Outwearying  mortal  sin. 

Not  mindless  of  the  growing  years 

Of  care  and  loss  and  ])ain, 
My  eyes  are  wet  with  thankful  tears 

For  blessings  which  remain. 

If  dim  the  gold  of  life  has  grown, 

I  will  not  count  it  dross, 
Nor  turn  from  treasures  still  my  own 

To  sigh  for  lack  and  loss. 


The  years  no  charm  from  Nature  take ; 

As  sweet  her  voices  call, 
As  beautiful  her  mornings  break, 

As  fair  her  evenings  fall. 

Love  watches  o'er  my  quiet  ways, 

Kind  voices  speak  my  name. 
And  lips  that  And  it  hard  to  praise 

Are  slow,  at  least,  to  blame. 

How  softly  ebb  the  tides  of  wiU ! 

How  fields,  once  lost  or  won. 
Now  lie  behind  me  green  and  still 

Beneath  a  level  sun ! 

How  hushed  the  hiss  of  party  hate, 

The  clamor  of  the  throng ! 
How  old,  harsh  voices  of  debate 

Flow  into  rhythmic  song ! 

Methinks  the  spirit's  temper  gi'ows 

Too  soft  in  this  still  air. 
Somewhat  the  restful  heart  foregoes 

Of  needed  watch  and  i^rayer. 

The  Imrk  by  tempest  vainly  tossed 

May  founder  in  the  calm, 
And  he  who  braved  the  i)olar  frost 

Faint  by  the  isles  of  balm. 

Better  than  self-indulgent  years 
The  outflung  heart  of  youth, 

Than  pleasant  songs  in  idle  ears 
The  tumult  of  the  truth. 

Rest  for  the  weary  hands  is  good. 
And  love  for  hearts  that  pine, 

But  let  the  manly  habitude 
Of  upright  souls  be  mine. 

Let  winds  that  blow  from  heaven  refresh, 

Dear  Lord,  the  languid  air ; 
And  let  the  weakness  of  the  flesh 

Thy  strength  of  spirit  share. 

And,  if  the  eye  must  fail  of  light, 

The  ear  forget  to  hear. 
Make  clearer  still  the  spirit's  sight, 

More  fine  the  inward  ear ! 

Be  near  me  in  mine  hours  of  need 
To  soothe,  to  cheer,  or  warn. 

And  down  these  slopes  of  sunset  lead 
As  up  the  hills  of  morn ! 


JOHN   G.   WHITTIER. 


215 


THE  VANISHERS. 

Sweetest  of  all  childlike  dreams 

In  the  simple  Indian  lore 
Still  to  me  the  legend  seems 

Of  the  shapes  who  flit  before. 

Flitting,  passing,  seen  and  gone, 
Never  reached  nor  found  at  rest, 

Baffling  search,  but  beckoning  on 
To  the  Sunset  of  the  Blest. 

From  the  clefts  of  mountain  rocks. 
Through  the  dark  of  lowland  firs, 

Flash  the  ej'es  and  flow  the  locks 
Of  the  mystic  Vanishers  ! 

And  the  fisher  in  his  skiif. 
And  the  hunter  on  the  moss, 

Hi'ar  their  call  from  cape  and  cliff", 
See  their  hands  the  birch-leaves  toss. 

Wistful,  longing,  through  the  green 
Twilight  of  the  clustered  pines, 

In  their  faces  rarely  seen 

Beauty  more  than  mortal  sliines. 

Fringed  with  gold  their  mantles  flow 
On  the  slopes  of  westering  knolls; 

In  the  wind  they  whisper  low 
Of  the  Sunset  Land  of  Souls. 

Doulit  who  may,  0  friend  of  mine  ! 

Thou  and  I  have  seen  them  too ; 
On  before  with  beck  and  sign 

Still  they  glide,  and  we  pursue. 

More  than  clouds  of  purple  trail 
In  the  gold  of  setting  day ; 

More  than  gleams  of  wing  or  sail 
Beckon  from  the  sea-mist  gray. 

Glimpses  of  immortal  youth. 

Gleams  and  glories  seen  and  flown, 

Far-heard  voices  sweet  with  truth, 
Airs  from  viewless  Eden  blown,  — 

Beauty  that  eludes  our  grasp, 

Sweetness  that  transcends  our  taste, 

Loving  hands  we  may  not  clasp. 

Shining  feet  that  mock  our  haste,  — 

Gentle  eyes  we  closed  below. 
Tender  voices  heard  once  more. 

Smile  and  call  us,  as  they  go 
On  and  onward,  still  before. 


Guided  thus,  0  friend  of  mine  ! 

Let  us  walk  our  little  way, 
Knowing  by  each  beckoning  sign 

That  we  are  not  quite  astray. 

Chase  we  still,  with  baffled  feet, 
Smiling  eye  and  waving  hand. 

Sought  and  seeker  soon  shall  meet, 
Lost  and  found,  in  Sunset  Land ! 


IN  SCHOOL-DAYS. 

Still  sits  the  school-house  by  the  road, 

A  ragged  beggar  suiming ; 
Around  it  still  the  sumachs  gi'ow. 

And  blackberry-vines  are  running. 

Within,  the  master's  desk  is  seen, 
Deep  scarred  by  raps  official ; 

The  warping  floor,  the  battered  seats. 
The  jack-knife's  carved  initial; 

The  charcoal  frescos  on  its  wall ; 

Its  door's  worn  sill,  betraying 
The  feet  that,  creeping  slow  to  school, 

Went  storming  out  to  playing ! 

Long  years  ago  a  winter  sun 

Shone  over  it  at  setting ; 
Lit  up  its  western  window-panes, 

And  low  eaves'  icy  fretting. 

It  touched  the  tangled  golden  curls, 
And  brown  eyes  full  of  grieving, 

Of  one  who  still  her  steps  delayed 
When  all  the  school  were  leaving. 

For  near  her  stood  the  little  boy 

Her  childish  favor  singled ; 
His  cap  pulled  low  upon  a  face 

Where  pride  and  shame  were  mingled- 

Pnshing  with  restless  feet  the  snow 
To  right  and  left,  he  lingered;  — 

As  restlessly  her  tiny  hands 

The  blue-checked  apron  fingered. 

He  saw  her  lift  her  eyes ;  he  felt 
The  soft  hand's  light  caressing, 

And  heard  the  tremble  of  her  voice, 
As  if  a  fault  confessing. 

"I  'm  sorry  that  I  spelt  the  word : 
I  hate  to  go  above  you, 


216 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Because,"  —  the  brown  eyes  lower  fell,- 
"  Because,  you  see,  I  love  you !" 

Still  memory  to  a  gray-haired  man 
That  sweet  child-face  is  sliowing. 

Dear  girl !  the  grasses  on  her  grave 
Have  forty  years  been  growing  ! 

He  lives  to  learn,  in  life's  hard  school. 
How  few  who  pass  above  him 

Lament  their  triumph  and  his  loss, 
Like  her,— because  they  love  him. 


LAUS  DEO  I 

ON  HEARING  THE  BELLS  RING  ON  THE  PASSAGE 
OF  THE  CONSTITUTIONAL  AMENDMENT  ABOL- 
ISHING  SLAVERY. 

■S 

It  is  done ! 

Clang  of  bell  and  roar  of  gun 
Send  the  tidings  up  and  down. 

How  the  belfries  rock  and  reel ! 

How  the  great  guns,  peal  on  peal, 
Fling  the  joy  from  town  to  town  ! 

Ring,  0  bells  ! 
Every  stroke  exulting  tells 

Of  the  burial  hour  of  crime. 

Loud  and  long,  that  all  may  hear, 
Ring  for  every  listening  ear 

Of  Eternity  and  Time ! 

Let  Tis  kneel : 
God's  own  voice  is  in  that  peal, 

And  this  spot  is  holy  ground. 
Lord,  forgive  us  !    What  are  we, 
That  our  eyes  this  glory  see, 

That  our  ears  have  heard  the  sound ! 

For  the  Lord 

On  the  whirlwind  is  abroad ; 
In  tlie  earthquake  he  has  spoken  ; 

He  has  smitten  -with  his  thunder 

The  iron  walls  asunder. 
And  the  gates  of  brass  are  broken  ! 

Loud  and  long 
Lift  the  old  exulting  song; 

Sing  with  Miriam  liy  the  sea 
He  has  cast  the  mighty  down  ; 
Horse  and  rider  .sink  and  drown  ; 

"  He  hath  triumphed  gloriously  ! " 

Did  we  dare. 
In  our  agony  of  prayer. 
Ask  for  more  than  He  has  done  ? 


Wlien  was  ever  his  right  hand 
Over  any  time  or  land 
Stretched  as  now  beneath  the  sun  ? 

How  they  pale. 
Ancient  myth  and  song  and  tale, 

In  this  wonder  of  our  days, 
"When  the  cruel  rod  of  war 
Blossoms  white  with  righteous  law, 

And  the  wrath  of  man  is  praise  ! 

Blotted  out ! 
All  within  ami  all  about 

Shall  a  fresher  life  begin ; 
Freer  breathe  the  universe 
As  it  rolls  its  h(;avy  curse 

Ou  the  dead  and  buried  sin ! 

It  is  done ! 
In  the  circuit  of  the  sun 

Shall  the  sound  thereof  go  forth. 
It  shall  bid  the  sad  rejoice,^ 
It  shall  give  the  dumb  a  voice, 

It  shall  belt  with  joy  the  earth  ! 

Ring  and  swing. 
Bells  of  joy !     On  morning's  wing 

Send  the  song  of  praise  abroad  ! 
With  a  sound  of  broken  chains 
Tell  the  nations  that  Ke  reigns, 

Who  alone  is  Lord  and  God ! 


THE  EVE  OF  ELECTION. 

FiioM  gold  to  gray 

Our  mild  sweet  day 
Of  Indian  summer  fades  too  soon  ; 

But  tenderly 

Above  the  sea 
Hangs,   white   and   calm,   the  hunter's 
moon. 

In  its  pale  fire. 

The  village  spire 
Shows  like  the  zodiac's  spectral  lance : 

The  painted  walls 

Whereon  it  falls 
Transfigured  stand  in  marble  trance ! 

O'er  fallen  leaves 

The  west- wind  grieves. 
Yet  comes  a  seed-time  round  again ; 

And  morn  shall  see 

The  State  sown  free 
With  baleful  tares  or  healthful  grain. 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM. 


217 


Along  the  street 

The  shadows  meet 
Of  Destiny,  whose  hands  conceal 

The  moulds  of  fate 

That  shape  the  state, 
And  make  or  mar  the  conmion  weal. 

Around  I  see 

The  powers  that  be ; 
I  stand  by  Empire's  primal  springs ; 

Ami  princes  meet 

In  every  street. 
And  hear  the  tread  of  uncrowned  kings  ! 

Hark  !  through  the  crowd 

The  laugh  runs  loud, 
Beneath  the  sad,  rebuking  moon. 

God  save  the  land 

A  careless  hand 
May  shake  or  swerve  ere  morrow's  noon  ! 

No  jest  is  this ; 

One  cast  amiss 
May  blast  the  hope  of  Freedom's  year. 

0,  take  me  where 

Are  hearts  of  prayer, 
And  foreheads  bowed  in  reverent  fear ! 

Not  lightly  fall 

Beyoiui  recall 
The  written  scrolls  a  breath  can  float ; 

The  crowning  fact 

The  kingliest  act 
Of  Freedom  is  the  freeman's  vote ! 

For  pearls  that  gem 

A  diadem 
The  diver  in  the  deep  sea  dies ; 

The  regal  right 

"\Ve  boast  to-night 
Is  ours  through  costlier  sacrifice ; 

The  blood  of  Vane, 

His  prison  pain 
Who  traced  the  path  the  Pilgrim  trod, 

And  hers  whose  faith 

Drew  strength  from  death, 
And  prayed  her  Russell  up  to  God  ! 

Our  hearts  grow  cold, 

We  lightly  hold 
A  right  which  brave  men  died  to  gain ; 

The  stake,  the  cord. 

The  axe,  the  sword, 
Grim  nurses  at  its  birth  of  pain. 


The  shadow  rend, 

And  o'er  us  bend, 
Omartyrs,  with  your  crownsand  palms, — 

Breathe  through  these  throngs 

Your  battle  songs, 
Your    scafibld    prayers,  and    dungeon 
psalms ! 

Look  from  the  sky. 

Like  God's  great  eye. 
Thou  solemn  moon,  with  searching  beam ; 

Till  iu  the  sight 

Of  thy  pure  light 
Our  mean  self-seekings  meaner  seem. 

Shame  from  our  hearts 

Unworthy  arts. 
The  fraud  designed,  the  purpose  dark; 

And  smite  away 

The  hands  we  lay 
Profanely  on  the  sacred  ai'k. 

To  party  claims 

And  private  aims, 
Reveal  that  august  face  of  Truth, 

Whereto  are  given 

The  age  of  heaven. 
The  beauty  of  immortal  youth. 

So  shall  our  voice 

Of  sovereign  choice 
Swell  the  deep  bass  of  duty  done, 

And  strike  the  key 

Of  time  to  be, 
\^^len  God  and  man  shall  speak  as  one ! 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM. 

THE  TOirCHSTOKE. 

A  MAN  there  came,  whence  none  could  tell, 
Bearing  a  touchstone  in  his  hand ; 
And  tested  all  things  in  the  laud 

By  its  unerring  sj^ell. 

Quick  birth  of  transmutation  smote 
The  fair  to  foul,  the  foul  to  fiiir; 
Purple  nor  ermine  did  he  spare, 

Nor  scorn  the  dusty  coat. 

Of  heirloom  jewels,  prized  so  much, 
Were  many  changed  to  chips  and  clods, 
And  even  statues  of  the  gods 

Crumbled  beneath  its  touch. 


218 


SONGS   OF   THKEE   CENTURIES. 


Then  angi-ily  the  people  cried, 

"The  loss  outweighs  the  profit  far; 
Our  goods  suffice  us  as  they  are ; 

We  will  not  have  them  tried." 

And  since  they  could  not  so  avail 
To  check  this  unrelenting  guest, 
They  seized  him,  saying,  "Let  him  test 

How  real  is  our  jail !" 

But,  though  they  slew  him  with  the  sword, 
And  in  a  fire  his  touchstone  burned, 
Its  doings  could  not  be  o'erturued, 

Its  undoings  restored. 

And  when,  to  stop  all  future  harm. 
They  strewed  its  ashes  on  the  breeze; 
They  little  guessed  each  grain  of  these 

Conveyed  the  perfect  charm. 


CHARLES  MACKAY. 

SMALL  BEGINNIKGS. 

A    TRAVELLER    through   a  dusty   road 

strewed  acorns  on  the  lea ; 
And  one  took  root  and  sprouted  up,  and 

grew  into  a  tree. 
Love  sought  its  shade,  at  evening  time, 

to  breathe  his  early  vows ; 
And  age  was  pleased,  in  heats  of  noon, 

to  bask  beneath  its  boughs ; 
The  dormouse  loved  its  dangling  twigs, 

the  birds  sweet  music  bore ; 
It  stood  a  glory  in  its  place,  a  blessing 

evermore. 

A  little  spring  had  lost  its  way  amid  the 

grass  and  fern, 
A  passing  stranger  scooped  a  well,  where 

weary  men  miglit  tiirn ; 
He  walled  it  in,  and  hung  with  care  a 

ladle  at  the  brink ; 
He  thought  not  of  the  deed  he  did,  but 

judged  that  toil  might  drink. 
He  passed  again,  and  lo!    the  well,  by 

summers  never  dried, 
Hadcooled  ten  thousand  parched  tongues, 

and  saved  a  life  beside. 

A  dreamer  dropped  a  random  thought ; 

't  was  old,  and  yet  't  was  new ; 
A  simple  fancy  of  the  brain,  but  strong 

in  being  true. 


It  .shone  upon  a  genial   mind,  and,  lo  1 

its  light  l)ecame 
A  lamp  of  life,  a  beacon  ray,  a  monitory 

flame  : 
The  thought  was  small ;  its  issue  great ; 

a  watch-fire  on  the  hill; 
It   sheds   its   radiance   far   adown,  and 

cheers  the  vaUey  still. 

A  nameless  man,  amid  a  crowd  that 
thronged  the  daily  mart, 

Let  fall  a  word  of  Hope  and  Love,  un- 
studied, from  the  heart ; 

A  whisper  on  the  tumult  thrown, — a 
transitory  breath,  — 

It  raised  a  brother  from  the  dust;  it 
saved  a  soul  from  death. 

0  germ !  0  fount !  O  word  of  love !  O 
thought  at  random  cast ! 

Ye  were  but  little  at  the  first,  but  mighty 
at  the  last. 


TUBAL  CAIN. 

Old  Tubal  Cain  was  a  man  of  might 

In  the  days  when  Earth  was  young; 
By  the  fierce  red  light  of  his  furnace  bright 

The  strokes  of  liis  hammer  rung ; 
And  he  lifted  high  his  brawny  hand 

On  the  iron  glowing  clear. 
Till  the  sparks   rushed   out   in   scarlet 
showers, 

As  he  fashioned  the  sword  and  spear. 
And   he  sang,  "Hurrah  for  my  handi- 
work ! 

Hurrah  for  the  spear  and  sword ! 
Hurrah  for  the  hand  that  shall  wield  them 
well, 

For  he  shall  be  king  and  lord !" 


To  Tubal  Cain  came  many  a  one,^ 

As  he  wrought  by  his  roaring  fire. 
And  each  one  prayed  for  a  strong  steel 
blade 

As  the  crown  of  his  desire ; 
And  he  made  them  weapons  sharp  and 
strong. 

Till  tliey  shouted  loud  for  glee. 
And  gave  him  gifts  of  pearl  and  gold. 

And  spoils  of  the  forest  free. 
And  they  sang,  "Hurrah  for  Tubal  Cain, 

Who  iiath  given  us  strength  anew  ! 
Hurrah  for  tlie  smith,  hurrah  for  the  fire, 

Aud  hurrah  for  the  metal  true !" 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES. 


219 


But  a  sudden  change  came  o'er  liis  lieart 

Ere  tlie  setting  of  the  sun, 
And  Tubal  Cain  was  filled  with  pain 

For  the  evil  he  had  done ; 
He  saw  that  men,  with  rage  and  hate, 

Made  war  upon  their  kind, 
That  the  land  was  red  with  the  blood 
they  shed 

In  their  lust  for  carnage  blind. 
And  he  said,  "Alas!  that  ever  I  made, 

Or  that  skill  of  mine  should  plan. 
The  spear  and  the  sword  for  men  whose 

joy 

Is  to  slay  their  fellow-man." 

And  for  many  a  day  old  Tubal  Cain 

Sat  brooding  o'er  his  woe ; 
And  his  hand  forbore  to  smite  the  ore, 

And  his  furnace  smouldered  low. 
But  he  rose  at  last  with  a  cheerful  face, 

And  a  bright,  courageous  eye, 
And  bared  his  sti'ong  right  arm  for  work, 

Wiiile  the  qinck  flames  mounted  liigli. 
And  he  sang,  "Hurrah   for   my  handi- 
craft ! " 

And  the  red  sparks  lit  the  air ; 
"Not  alone  for  the  blade  was  the  bright 
steel  made" ; 

And  he  fashioned  the  first  ploughshare. 


OLIVER  WEKDELL  HOLMES. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

THE  LIVING  TEMPLE. 

Not  in  the  world  of  light  alone, 
"Where  God  has  built  his  blazing  throne, 
Nor  yet  alone  in  earth  below. 
With  belted  seas  that  come  and  go. 
And  endless  isles  of  sunlit  green, 
Is  all  thy  Maker's  glory  seen : 
Look  in  upon  thy  wondrous  frame, — 
Eternal  wisdom  still  the  same  ! 

Tlie  smooth,  soft  air  with  pulse-like  waves 
Flows   murmuring   through  its   hidden 

caves, 
W  li  ose  streams  of  brighten  ing  purple  rash, 
Fired  with  a  new  and  livelier  blush, 
While  all  their  burden  of  decay 
Tlie  ebliing  current  steals  away, 
And  red  with  Nature's  flame  they  start 
From  the  warm  fountains  of  the  heart. 


No  rest  that  throbbing  slave  may  ask, 
Forever  quivering  o'er  his  task. 
While  far  and  wide  a  crimson  jet 
Leaps  forth  to  fill  the  woven  net 
Which  in  unnumbered  crossing  tides 
The  flood  of  burning  life  divides, 
Then,  kindling  each  decaying  part, 
Creeps  back  to  find  the  throbbing  heart. 

But  warmed  with  that  unchanging  flame 
Behold  the  outward  moving  frame, 
Its  living  marbles  jointed  strong 
With  glistening  band  and  silvery  thong. 
And  linked  to  reason's  guiding  reins 
By  myriad  rings  in  trembling  chains, 
Each  graven  with  the  threaded  zone 
Which  claims  it  as  the  master's  own. 

See  how  yon  beam  of  seeming  white 
Is  braided  out  of  seven-hued  light, 
Yet  in  those  lucid  globes  no  ray 
By  any  chance  shall  break  astray. 
Hark  how  the  rolling  surge  of  sound. 
Arches  and  spirals  circling  round, 
Wakesthehushed  sjiirit  through  thine  ear 
With  music  it  is  heaven  to  hear. 

Then  mark  the  cloven  sphere  that  holds 
All  thought  in  its  mysterious  folds. 
That  feels  sensation's  faintest  thrill. 
And  flashes  forth  the  sovereign  will ; 
Think  on  the  stormy  world  that  dwells 
Lo(;ked  in  its  dim  and  clustering  cells! 
The  lightning  gleams  of  power  it  sheds 
Along  its  hollow  glassy  threads ! 

0  Father !  grant  thy  love  divine 
To  make  these  mystic  temples  thine  I 
When  wasting  age  and  wearying  strife 
Have  sapped  the  leaning  walls  of  life, 
When  darkness  gathers  over  all, 
And  the  last  tottering  pillars  fall. 
Take  the  poor  dust  thy  meicy  warms, 
And  mould  it  into  heavenly  forms ! 


DOROTHY  Q. 

A  FAMILY   PORTRAIT. 

Ckaxdmother's  mother;  herage,  Iguess, 
Tliirteen  summers,  or  something  less  ; 
Girlish  bust,  but  womanly  air, 
Smooth,  square  forehead,  with  uprolled 

hair, 
Lips  that  lover  has  never  kissed, 
Taper  fingers  and  slender  wrist, 


220 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Ilangingj  sleeves  of  stiff  brocade,  — 
So  they  painted  the  little  maid. 

On  her  hand  a  parrot  green 
Sits  lunnoving  and  broods  serene; 
Holtl  up  the  canvas  full  in  view,  — 
Look !    there  's  a  rent   the  light  shines 

through, 
Dark  with  a  century's  fringe  of  dust,  — 
Tliat  was  a  Redcoat's  rapier-thrust ! 
Such  is  the  tale  the  lady  old, 
Dorothy's  daughter's  daughter,  told. 

Who  the  painter  was  none  may  tell,  — 
One  whose  best  was  not  over  well ; 
Hard  and  dry,  it  must  be  confessed. 
Flat  as  a  rose  that  has  long  been  pressed ; 
Yet  in  her  cheek  the  hues  are  bright, 
Dainty  colors  of  red  and  white  ; 
And  in  lier  slender  shape  are  seen 
Hint  and  promise  of  stately  mien. 

Look  not  on  her  with  eyes  of  scorn,  — 
Dorothy  Q.  was  a  lady  born  ! 
Ay  !  since  the  galloping  Normans  came, 
England's  annals  have  known  her  name; 
And  still  to  the  threediilled  rebel  town 
Dear  is  that  ancient  name's  renown. 
For  many  a  civic  wreath  they  won, 
The  youthful  sire  and  the  gray-haired  son. 

0  damsel  Dorothy !  Dorothy  Q.  ! 
Stiange  is  the  gift  that  I  owe  to  you ; 
Such  a  gift  as  never  a  king 
Save  to  daughter  or  son  might  bring, — 
All  my  tenure  of  heart  and  hand. 
All  my  title  to  house  and  land; 
Mother  and  sister,  and  child  and  wife, 
And  joy  and  sorrow,  and  death  and  life  ! 

What  if  a  hundred  years  ago 

Tliose  close-shut  lips  had  answered,  No, 

When  forth  the  tremulous  question  came 

Tiiat  cost  the  maiden  her  Norman  name ; 

And  under  the  folds  that  look  so  still 

The  bodice  swelled  with  thebosom's  thrill  ? 

Should  I  be  I,  or  would  it  be 

One  tenth  another  to  nine  tenths  me  ? 

Soft  is  the  breath  of  a  maiden's  Yes : 
Not  the  light  gossamer  stirs  with  less; 
]5ut  never  a  cable  that  holds  so  fast 
Tiirough  all  the  battles  of  wave  and  blast, 
And  never  an  echo  of  speech  or  song 
That  lives  in  the  baldding  air  so  long! 
There  were  tones  in  the  voice  that  whis- 
pered then 
You  may  hear  to-day  in  a  hundred  men ! 


0  lady  and  lover,  how  ftiint  and  far 
Your  images  hover,  and  here  we  are. 
Solid  and  stirring  in  flesh  and  bone,  — 
Edward'sand  Dorothy's  —  all  theirown  — 
A  goodly  record  for  time  to  show 

Of  a  syllable  spoken  so  long  ago  !  — 
Shall  I  bless  you,  Dorothy,  or  forgive, 
For  the  tender  whisper  that  bade  me  live  ? 

It  shall  be  a  blessing,  my  little  maid ! 

1  will  heal   the   stab   of  the    Kedcoat's 

blade. 
And  freshen  the  gold  of  the  tarnished 

frame. 
And  gild  with  a  rhyme  your  household 

name. 
So  you  shall  smile  on  us  brave  and  bright 
As  first  you  greeted  the  morning's  light, 
And  live  untroubled  by  woes  and  fears 
Through  a  second  youth  of  a  hundred 

years. 

THE  VOICELESS. 

We  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest 
Where  the  sweet  wailing  singers  slum- 
ber, 
But  o'er  their  silent  sister's  breast 
The   wild-flowers   who  will  stoop  to 
number  ? 
A  few  can  touch  the  magic  string. 

And   noisy   Fame    is    proud   to  win 
them :  — 
Alas  for  those  that  never  sing, 

But  die  with  all  their  music  in  them! 

Nay,  grieve  not  for  the  dead  alone 

Whose  song  has  told  their  hearts'  sad 
story, — 
Weep  for  the  voiceless,  who  have  known 
The  cross  without  the  crown  of  glory ! 
Not  where  Leucadian's  breezes  sweep 

O'er  Sappho's  memory-haunted  billow. 
But   where    the    glistening   night-dews 
M'eep 
On     nameless     sorrow's     churchyard 
pillow. 

0  hearts  that  break  and  give  no  sign 

Save  whitening  li]>  and  fading  tresses, 
Till  Death  pours  out  his  cordial  wine 

Slow-dro])p(Hl  from  Misery's  crushing 
presses,  — 
If  singing  breath  or  echoing  chord 

To  every  hidden  jiang  were  given. 
What  endless  melodies  were  poured, 

As  sad  as  earth,  as  sweet  as  heaven ! 


OLIVEE  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


221 


ROBINSON  OF  LEYDEN. 

He  sleeps  not  here  ;  in  hope  and  prayer 
His  wandering  fioek  had  gone  before, 

But  he,  the  shepherd,  might  not  share 
Their  sorrows  on  the  wintry  shore. 

Before  the  Speedwell's  anchor  swung. 
Ere  yet  the  Mayflower's  sail  was  spread. 

While  round  his  feet  the  Pilgrims  elung, 
The  pastor  spake,  and  thus  he  said  : — 

"Men,  brethren,  sisters,  children  dear! 

God  calls  you  hence  from  over  sea ; 
Ye  may  not  build  by  Haerlem  Meer, 

Nor  yet  along  the  Zuyder-Zee. 

"Ye  go  to  bear  the  saving  word 
To  tribes  unnamed  and  shores  untrod : 

Heed  well  the  lessons  ye  have  heard 
From  those  old  teachers  taught  of  God. 

"Yet  think  not  unto  them  was  lent 
All  light  for  all  the  coming  days, 

And  Heaven's  eternal  wisdom  sjient 
In  making  straight  the  ancient  ways : 

"The  living  fountain  overflows 
For  every  flock,  for  every  lamb. 

Nor  heeds,  though  angry  creeds  oppose. 
With  Luther's  dike  or  Calvin's  dam." 

He  spake:  with  lingering,  long  embrace. 
With  tears  of  love  and  partings  fond, 

They  floated  down  the  creeping  Maas, 
Along  the  isle  of  Ysselmond. 

They  passed  the  frowning  towers  of  Briel, 
The   "Hook   of  Holland's"    shelf  of 
sand. 

And  grated  soon  with  lifting  keel 
The  sullen  shores  of  Fatherland. 

No  home  for  these  !  —  too  well  they  knew 
The  mitred  king  behind  the  throne ;  — 

The  sails  were  set,  the  pennons  flew. 
And  westward  ho !  for  worlds  unknown. 

—  And  these  were  the}' who  gave  us  birth, 
The  Pilgrims  of  the  sunset  wave, 

Who  won  for  us  this  virgin  earth. 
And  freedom  with  the  soil  they  gave. 

The  pastor  slumbers  by  the  Ehine,  — 
In  alien  earth  the  exiles  lie,  — 

Their  nameless  graves  our  holiest  shrine, 
His  words  our  noblest  battle-cry ! 


Still  cry  them,  and  the  world  shall  hear, 
Ye  dwellers  by  the  storra-swejit  sea ! 

Ye  have  not  built  by  Haerlem  Meer, 
Nor  on  the  laud-locked  Zuyder-Zee ! 


THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE; 

OR,  THE  WONDERFUL  "  ONE-UOSS  SHAY." 
A  LOGICAL  STORY. 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one- 

hoss  shay. 
That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 
It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day. 
And  then,  of  a  sudden,  it  —  ah,  but  stay, 
I  '11  tell  you  what  happened  without  delay. 
Scaring  the  parson  into  fits. 
Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits,  — 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say  ? 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five. 
Gconjius  Sccundus  was  then  alive,  — 
Snutt'y  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 
That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down. 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 
It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  oue-hoss 
shay. 

Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you 

what. 
There  is   always   soviciohere   a  weakest 

spot,  — 
In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill. 
In  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 
In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbrace, — luiking 

still, 
Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will,  — 
Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without,  — 
And  that 's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt, 
A  chaise  breaks  down,  but  does  n't  wear 

out. 

But  the  Deacon  swore  (as  Deacons  do. 
With  an  "I  dew  vum,"  or  an  "I  tell 

yeou  ") 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
'n'  the  keounty  'n'  all  the  kentry  raoun' ; 
It  should  be  so  built  that  it  co-iUd  n'  break 

daown : 
—  "Fur,"  said  the  Deacon,  "'t  's  mighty 

plain 


222 


SONGS   OF  THEEE   CENTURIES. 


Thut   the  weakes'  place  mus'  start'  the 

strain ; 
'n'  the  way  t'  fix  it,  xiz  I  maintain, 

Is  only  jest 
T'  make  that  place  iiz  strong  uz  the  rest. " 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 
Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak, 
That   could  n't   be   split   nor   bent   nor 

broke,  — 
That  was  for  spokes  and  floor  and  sills ; 
He    sent    for   lancewood    to    make    the 

thills ; 
The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the  straight- 

est  trees, 
The  panels  of  white-wood,  that  cuts  like 

cheese, 
But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these ; 
The   hubs   of  logs  from   the  ' '  Settler's 

ellum,"  — 
Last  of  its  timber,  —  they  could  n't  sell 

'em. 
Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips. 
And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their 

lips, 
Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips ; 
Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw. 
Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too, 
Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue ; 
Thoroughbrace    bison-skin,    thick    and 

wide ; 
Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 
Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died. 
Tiiat  was  the  way  he  "  put  her  through. "  — 
"There!"  said  the  Deacon,  "uaow  she'll 

dew !" 

Do !  I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 
She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less! 
Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray, 
Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away, 
Childrenandgrandchildren, — where  were 

they  ? 
But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss 

shay 
As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day ! 

Eighteen    hundred; — it    came    and 

found 
The   Deacon's    masterpiece    strong   and 

sound. 
Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten  ;  — 
"ilahnsum  kerridge"  they  called  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundreil  an(^l  twenty  ('anu!;  — 
Kunning  as  usual ;  much  tin;  same. 
Thirty  and  foi-ty  at  last  airivi^. 
And  then  come  fifty,  and  fifty-five. 


Little  of  all  we  value  here 
Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 
Without  both  feidiug  and  looking  queer. 
In  fact,  there  's  nothing  that  keeps  its 

youth. 
So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 
(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large ; 
Take  it. — You're  welcome. — No  extra 

charge.) 

First  of  November,  —  the  Earthquake- 
day.— 
There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  oue-ho.ss 

shay, 
A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay, 
But  nothing  local  as  one  may  say. 
That  could  n't  be, — for  the  Deacon's  art 
Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 
That  there  was  n't  a  chance  for  one  to 

start. 
For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the 

thills. 
And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills, 
And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 
And  the  whippletree  neither  less  nor  more, 
Andtheback-crossbaras.strongasthefore, 
And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 
And  yet,  as  a  whole,  it  is  past  a  doubt 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  wor7i  out! 

First  of  November,  'Fifty-five ! 
This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive. 
Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way  ! 
Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 
Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 
"Huddup!"  said  the  parson. — Off  went 
they. 

The  parson  was  working   his   Sunday's 

text,  — 
Had  got  to  fiftliJ]!,  and  stopped  jieqilexed 
At  what  the — Moses — was  coming  next. 
All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still, 
Close  by  the  meet'n'-house  on  the  hill. 

—  First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill, 
Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill,  — 
And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rock. 
At  half  past  nine  by  the  meet'n'-house 

clock, — 
Just  the  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock  ! 

—  What  do  you  tliiuk  the  parson  found, 
When  he  got  up  and  stared  around  ? 
The  ])oor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  (U- mound. 
As  if  it  had  been  to  the;  mill  and  ground  ! 
You  see,  of  course,  if  you  're  not  a  dunce, 
How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once,  — 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLItfES. 


223 


All  at  once,  and  nothing  first, 
Just  as  bubbles  do  wheu  they  burst. 

End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 
Logic  is  logic.     That 's  all  I  say. 


THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS. 

Tins  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets 

feign, 

Sails  tlie  unshadowed  main,  — 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 

On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled 

wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Sirensings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 
Where  the  cold   sea-maids   rise  to  sun 
their  streaming  hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl ; 
Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 
And  every  chambered  cell, 
Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont 

to  dwell. 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing 
shell. 
Before  thee  lies  revealed,  — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt 
unsealed ! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 
That  spread  his  lustrous  coil; 
Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the 

new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway 
through, 
Built  up  its  idle  door, 
Stretched  in   his  last-found   home,  and 
knew  the  old  no  more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought 
by  thee, 
Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 
Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn  ! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  boni 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed 
horn ! 
"\^nule  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 
Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear 
a  voice  that  sings  :  — 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  0  my 
soul. 
As  the  swift  seasons  roll ! 


Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past  ! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last. 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more 
vast, 
Till  thou  at  length  art  free. 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's 
unresting  sea ! 


UNDER  THE  VIOLETS. 

Her  hands  are  cold ;  her  face  is  white ; 
No  more  her  pulses  come  and  go ; 

Her  eyes  are  shut  to  life  and  light ;  — 
Fold  the  white  vesture,  snow  on  snow, 
And  lay  her  where  the  violets  blow. 

But  not  beneath  a  graven  stone, 
To  plead  for  tears  with  alien  eyes ; 

A  slender  cross  of  wood  alone 
Shall  say,  that  here  a  maiden  lies 
In  peace  beneath  the  peaceful  skies. 

And  gray  old  trees  of  hugest  limb 

Shall   wheel    their    circling  shadows 
round 
To  make^the  scorching  sunlight  dim 
That  drinks   the  greenness  from  the 

ground. 
And   drop   their   dead   leaves  on  her 
mound. 

When  o'er  their  boughs  the  squirrels  run, 
And  through  their  leaves  the  robins 
call, 

And,  ripening  in  the  autumn  sun. 
The  acorns  and  the  chestnuts  fall, 
Doubt  not  that  she  will  heed  them  all. 

For  her  the  morning  choir  shall  sing 
Its  matins  from  the  branches  high. 

And  every  minstrel-voice  of  Spring, 
That  trills  beneath  the  April  sky, 
Shall  greet  her  with  its  earliest  cry. 

When,  turning  round  their  dial-track, 
Eastward  the  lengthening  shadows  pass, 

Her  little  mourners,  clad  in  black. 
The  crickets,  sliding  through  the  grass, 
Shall  pipe  for  her  an  evening  mass. 

At  last  the  rootlets  of  the  trees 

Shall  find  the  prison  where  she  lies. 

And  bear  the  buried  dust  they  seize 
In  leaves  and  blossoms  to  the  skies. 
So  may  the  soul  that  warmed  it  rise ! 


224 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


If  any,  horn  of  kindlier  lilood. 

Should  ask,  What  maiden  lies  below? 

Say  only  this :  A  tender  bud, 

Tliat  tried  to  blossom  in  the  snow, 
Lies  withered  where  the  violets  blow. 


JAMES  EUSSELL  LOWELL. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

THE  HERITAGE. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  lands. 
And  piles  of  brick,  and  stone,  and  gold. 

And  he  inhei-its  soft,  white  hands. 
And  tender  llesh  that  fears  the  cold, 
Nor  dares  to  wear  a  garment  old ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

Tlie  rich  man's  son  inherits  cares ; 
The  bank  may  break,  the  factory  burn, 

A  breath  may  burst  his  bubble  shares, 
And  soft,  white  hands  could  hardly  earn 
A  living  that  would  serve  his  turn ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me. 

One  scai'ce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inheiits  wants, 
His  stomach  craves  for  dainty  fare; 

With  sated  heart,  he  hears  tlie  pants 
Of  toiling  hinds  with  brown  arms  bare, 
And  wearies  in  his  easy  chair ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me. 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit  ? 
Stout  muscles  and  a  sinewy  heart, 

A  hardy  frame,  a  hanlier  spirit; 

King  of  two  luiiids,  he  does  his  part 
In  every  useful  toil  and  art ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

AYhat  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit? 
Wishes  o'erjoyed  witli  luunlde  things, 

A  rank  adjudged  by  toil-won  merit. 
Content  tliat  from  employmentsprings, 
A  heart  that  in  his  laljor  sings ; 

A  liei'itage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit  ? 

A  patience  learned  by  being  poor, 
Courage,  if  sorrow  come,  to  bear  it. 


A  fellow-feeling  that  is  sure 
To  make  the  outcast  bless  his  door; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

0  rich  man's  son  !  there  is  a  toil, 
That  with  all  others  level  stands ; 

Large  charity  doth  never  soil, 

But  only  whiten,  soft,  white  hands, — 
This  is  the  best  crop  from  thy  lands ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me. 

Worth  being  rich  to  hold  in  fee. 

0  poor  man's  son  !  scorn  not  thy  state ; 
There  is  worse  weariness  than  thine. 

In  merely  being  rich  and  great; 
Toil  only  gives  the  soul  to  shine, 
And  makes  rest  fragrant  and  benign ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me. 

Worth  being  poor  to  hold  in  fee. 

Both,  heirs  to  some  six  feet  of  sod, 
Are  equal  in  tiie  earth  at  last ; 

Both,  children  of  the  same  dear  God, 
Prove  title  to  your  heirship  vast 
By  record  of  a  well-filled  past ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Well  worth  a  life  to  hold  in  fee. 


NEW  ENGLAND  SPRING. 
(From  "  The  Biglow  Papers.") 

I,  COUNTRY-BORN  an'  bred,  know  whore 

to  find 
Some  blooms  thet  make  the  season  suit 

the  mind. 
An'  seem  to  metch  the  doubtin'  blue- 
bird's notes,  — ■ 
Half-vent'rin'  liverworts  in  furry  coats, 
Blood-roots,   whose   rolled-up  leaves   ef 

fur  oncurl. 
Each  on  em  's  cradle  to  a  baby -pearl,  — 
But  these  are  jes'  Spring's  pickets  ;  sure 

ez  sin. 
The  rebble  frosts  '11  try  to  drive  'em  in  ; 
For  half  our  May  's  soawfully  like  May  n't 
'T  would  rile  a  Shaker  or  an  evrige  saint ; 
Though  I  own  up  I  like  our   back'ard 

springs 
Thet  kind  o'  haggle  with  their  greens  an' 

things, 
An'  when  you  'most  give  up,  'ithout  more 

words, 
Toss  the  fields  full  o'  blossoms,  leaves,  an' 

birds : 


JAMES   EUSSELL  LOWELL. 


221 


Thet  's  Norfhiin  natnr',  slow  an'  apt  to 

doubt, 
But  when  it  does  git  stirred,  there  's  no 

gin-out ! 

Fust  come  the  blackbirds   clatt'rin'    in 

tall  trees, 
An'  settlin'  things  in  windy  Congresses,  — 
Queer  politicians,  though,  lor   I  'U   be 

skinned 
Ef  all  on  'em  don't  head  against  the  wind. 
'Fore  long  the  trees  begin  to  show  belief. 
The  maple  crimsons  to  a  coral-reef, 
Then  saffron  swarms  swing  off  from  all 

the  willers, 
So  plum  p  they  look  like  y:  Jler  caterpillars, 
Then  gray  hosschesnuts  leetle  hands  un- 
fold 
Softer  'n  a  baby's  be  a'  three  days  old  : 
Thet  's  robin-redbreast's   almanick;    he 

knows 
Thet  arter  this  ther'  's   only   blossom- 
snows  ; 
So,  choosin'  out  a  handy  crotch  an'  spouse, 
"He  goes  to  plast'rin'  his  adobe  house. 

7hen  seems  to  come  a  hitch,  — things  lag 

behind, 
Till  some  fine  mornin'  Spring  makes  up 

her  mind, 
An'  ez,  when  snow-swelled  rivers  cresh 

their  dams 
Heaped  up  with  ice  thet  dovetails  in  an' 

jams, 
A  leak  comes  spirtin'  thru  some  pin-hole 

cleft. 
Grows  stronger,  fercer,  tears  out  right  an' 

left, 
Then  all  the  waters  bow  themselves  an' 

come, 
Suddin,  in   one  gret  slope  o'  shedderin 

foam, 
Jes'  so  our  Spring  gits  everythin'  in  tune 
An'  gives  one  leap  from  April  into  June ; 
Then  all  comes  crowdin'  in ;  afore  you 

think. 
Young  oak -leaves  mist  the  side-hill  woods 

with  pink ; 
The  cat-bird  in  the  laylock-bush  is  loud ; 
The  orchards  turn  to  heaps  o'  rosy  cloud ; 
Red-cedars  blossom  tu,  though  few  folks 

know  it, 
An'  look  all  dipt  in  sunshine  like  a  poet ; 
The  lime-trees  pile  their  solid  stacks  o' 

shade 
An'  drows'ly  simmer  with  the  bees'  sweet 

trade ; 


In  ellum  shrouds  the  flashin'  hang-bird 

clings. 
An'  for  tlie  summer  vy'ge  his  hammock 

slings ; 
All  down  the  loose-walled  lanes  in  archin' 

bowers 
The  barb'ry  droops  its  stiings  o'  golden 

flowers, 
Whose  shrinkin'  hearts  the  school-gals 

love  to  try 
With  pins  —  they  '11   worry   yourn   so, 

boys,  bimeby ! 
But  I  don't  love  your  cat'logue  style,  — 

do  you? — 
Ez  ef  to  sell  off  Natur'  by  vendoo ; 
One  word  with  blood   in  't  's   twice   ez 

good  ez  two : 
Nuff  sed,  June  's  bridesman,  poet  of  the 

year. 
Gladness  on  wings,  the  bobolink,  is  here  ; 
Half   hid    in   tip-top   ajjple  -  blooms   he 

swings. 
Or  climbs  aginst  the  breeze  with  quiv- 

erin'  wings, 
Or,  givin'  way  to  't  in  a  mock  despair, 
Runs  down,  a   brook   o'    laughter,  thru 

the  air. 


THE  COURTrN'. 

God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an'  still 
Fur  'z  you  can  look  or  listen, 

Moonshine  an'  snow  on  field  an'  hill, 
All  silence  an'  all  glisten. 

Zekle  crep'  up  quite  unbeknown 
An'  peeked  in  thru  the  winder, 

An'  there  sot  Huldy  all  alone, 
'Ith  no  one  nigh  to  hender. 

A  fireplace  filled  the  room's  one  side 
With  half  a  cord  o'  wood  in  — 

There  warnt  no  stoves  (tell  comfort  died) 
To  bake  ye  to  a  puddin'. 

The  wa'nut  logs  shot  spaikles  out 
Towards  the  pootiest,  bless  her, 

An'  leetle  flames  danced  all  about 
The  chiuy  on  the  dresser. 

Agin  the  chimbley  crook-necks  hung. 

An'  in  amongst  'em  rusted 
The  ole  queen's-arm  thet  gran'ther  Young 

Fetched  back  from  Concord  busted. 

The  very  room,  coz  she  was  in. 
Seemed  wann  from  floor  to  ceilin'. 


226 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


An'  she  looked  full  ez  rosy  agin 
Ez  the  apples  she  was  peelin'. 

'T  was  kin'  o'  kingdom-come  to  look 

On  seeh  a  blessed  cretur, 
A  dogrose  blushin'  to  a  brook 

Ain't  modester  nor  sweeter. 

He  was  six  foot  o'  man,  A  1, 
Clean  grit  an'  human  natur' ; 

None  could  n't  ([uickcr  pitch  a  ton 
Nor  dror  a  furrer  straighter. 

He  'd  sparked  it  with  full  twenty  gals, 
Hed  squired  'em,  danced  'em,  druv  'em. 

Fust  this  one,  an'  then  thet,  by  spells  — 
All  is,  he  could  n't  love  'em. 

But  long  o'  her  his  veins  'ould  nin 
All  crinkly  like  curled  maple. 

The  side  she  brushed  felt  full  o'  sun 
Ez  a  south  slope  in  Ap'il. 

She  thought  no  v'ice  hed  sech  a  swing 

Ez  hisn  in  the  choir ; 
My !  when  he  made  Ole  Hunderd  ring. 

She  knowcd  the  Lord  was  nigher. 

An'  she  'd  blush  scarlit,  right  in  prayer, 
When  her  new  meetin'-bunnet 

Felt  somehow  thru  its  crown  a  pair 
0'  blue  eyes  sot  upon  it. 

Thet  night,  I  tell  ye,  she  looked  some  ! 

She  seemed  to  've  gut  a  new  soul, 
For  she  felt  sartin-sure  he  'd  come, 

Down  to  her  very  shoe-sole. 

She  heered  a  foot,  an'  knowed  it  tu, 

A-raspin'  on  the  scraper,  — 
All  ways  to  once  her  feelins  flew 

Like  sparks  in  burnt-up  paper. 

He  kin'  o'  I'itered  on  the  mat, 

Some  doubtfle  o'  the  sekle. 
His  heart  kep'  goin'  pity- pat, 

But  hern  went  pity  Zekle. 

An'  yit  she  gin  her  cheer  a  jerk 
Ez  though  she  wished  him  furder, 

An'  on  her  a])))li's  kep'  to  work, 
Parin'  away  like  murder. 

"You  want  to  see  my  Pa,  I  s'pose?" 
"Wal  ....  no  ....  I   come   da- 
sign  in'  "  — 

"To  see  my  Ma ?    She 's  sprinklin'  clo'es 
Agin  to-morrcr's  i'niu'." 


To  say  why  gals  act  so  or  so, 
Or  don't,  'ould  be  presumin' ; 

Mebby  to  mean  yes  an'  say  no 
Comes  nateral  to  women. 

He  stood  a  spell  on  one  foot  fust, 
Then  stood  a  spell  on  t'  other, 

An'  on  which  one  he  felt  the  wust 
He  could  n't  ha'  told  ye  nuther. 

Says  he,  "I  'd  better  call  agin"  ; 

Says  she,  "Think  likely,  Mister"; 
Thet  last  word  pricked  him  like  a  pin, 

An'  ....  Wal,  he  up  an'  kist  her. 

When  Ma  bimeby  upon  'em  slips, 

Huldy  sot  pale  ez  ashes. 
All  kin'  o'  sniily  roun'  the  lips 

Au'  teary  roun'  the  lashes. 

For  she  was  jes'  the  quiet  kind 

Whose  naturs  never  vary, 
Like  streams  that  keep  a  summer  mind 

Snowhid  in  Jenooary. 

The  blood  clost  roun'  her  heart  felt  glued 

Too  tight  for  all  expressin'. 
Tell  mother  see  how  metters  stood, 

An'  gin  'em  both  her  blessin'. 

Then  her  red  come  back  like  the  tide 

Down  to  the  Bay  o'  Fundy, 
An'  .all  I  know  is  they  was  cried 

In  meetin'  come  nex'  Sunday. 


AMBROSE. 

Never,  surely,  was  holier  man 

Than  Ambi'ose,  since  the  world  began  ; 

With  diet  spare  and  raiment  thin 

He  shielded  himself  from  the  father  of  sin; 

With  bed  of  iron  and  scourgings  oft. 

His  heart  to  God's  hand  as  wax  made  soft. 

Through  earnest  prayer  and  watchings 

long 
He  sought   to  know  'twixt  right  and 

wrong. 
Much  -ttTcstling  with  the  blessed  Word 
To  make  it  yield  the  sense  of  the  Lord, 
That  he  might  build  a  storm-proof  creed 
To  fold  the  flock  in  at  their  need. 

At  last  he  builded  a  perfect  faith. 
Fenced  round  about  with  Tlic  Lord  thus 

sail  It ; 
To  himself  he  littcd  the  doorway's  size. 
Meted  the  light  to  the  need  of  his  eyes, 


JAJIES   EUSSELL   LOWELL. 


227 


And  knew,  by  a  sure  and  inward  sign, 
That  the  work  of  his  iingers  was  divine. 

Then  Ambrose  said,  "All  those  shall  die 
The  eternal  death  who  believe  not  as  I"  ; 
And  some  were  boiled,  some  burned  in  lire, 
Some  sawn  in  twain,  that  his  heart's  de- 
sire. 
For  the  good  of  men's  souls,  might  be 

satisfied. 
By  the  drawing  of  all  to  the  righteous 
side. 

One  day,  as  Ambrose  was  seekingthetruth 
In  his  lonely  walk,  he  saw  a  youth 
Resting  himself  in  the  shade  of  a  tree ; 
It  had  never  been  given  him  to  see 
So  shining  a  face,  and   the  good  man 

thought 
'T  were  jiity  he  should  not   believe  as 

he  ought. 

So  he  set  himself  by  the  young  man's  side, 

And  the  state  of  his  soul  with  questions 
tried ; 

But  the  heart  of  the  stranger  was  hard- 
ened indeed. 

Nor  received  the  stamp  of  the  one  true 
creed. 

And  the  spirit  of  Ambrose  waxed  sore  to 
find 

Such  face  the  jiorch  of  so  narrow  a  mind. 

"As  each  beholds  in  cloud  and  fire 
The  shape  that  answers  his  own  desire. 
So  each,"  said  the  youth,  "in  the  Law 

shall  find 
The  figure  and  features  of  his  mind ; 
And  to  each  in  his  mercy  hath  God  al- 
lowed 
His  several  pillar  of  fire  and  cloud." 

The  soul  of  Ambrose  burned  with  zeal 
And  holy  wrath  for  the  youngman's  weal : 
"Belie vest   thou   then,   most   wretched 

youth," 
Cried  he,  "a  dividual  essence  in  Truth? 
I  fear  me  thy  heart  is  too  cramped  with 

sin 
To  take  the  Lord  in  his  glory  in." 

Now  there  bubbled  beside  them  where 

they  stood 
A  fountain  of  waters  sweet  and  good  ; 
The  youth  to  the  streamlet's  brink  drew 

near 
Saying,  "Ambrose,  thou  maker  of  creeds, 

look  here !" 


Six  vases  of  crystal  then  he  took. 
And  set  them   along  the   edge   of  the 
brook. 

"As  into  these  vessels  the  water  I  pour, 
There  shall  one  hold  less,  another  more, 
And  the  water  unchangeil,  in  every  case, 
Shall  put  on  the  figure  of  the  vase ; 
0  thou,  who  wouldst  unity  make  through 

strife, 
Canst  thou  fit  this  sign  to  the  Water  of 

Life?" 

When  Ambrose  looked  up,  he  stood  alone. 
The  youth  and  the  stream  and  the  va.-,es 

were  gone ; 
But  he  knew,  by  a  sense  of  humbled  grace, 
He  had  talked  with  an  angel  face  to  face, 
And  felt  his  heart  change  inwardly, 
As  he  fell  on  his  knees  beneath  the  tree. 


AFTER  THE  BTTRIAL. 

Yes,  faith  is  a  goodly  anchor ; 
When  skies  are  sweet  as  a  psalm, 
At  the  bows  it  lolls  so  stalwart. 
In  blufl',  broad-shouldered  calm. 

And  when  over  breakers  to  leeward 
The  tattered  surges  are  hurled. 
It  may  keep  our  head  to  the  tempest. 
With  its  grip  on  the  base  of  the  world. 

But,  after  the  shipwreck,  tell  me 
What  help  in  its  iron  thews. 
Still  true  to  the  broken  hawser. 
Deep  down  among  sea-weed  and  ooze  ? 

In  the  breaking  gulfs  of  sorrow. 
When  the  helpless  feet  stretch  out 
And  find  in  the  deeps  of  darkness 
No  footing  so  solid  as  doubt, 

Then  better  one  spar  of  Memory, 
One  broken  plank  of  the  Past, 
That  our  human  heart  maj'  cling  to, 
Though  hopeless  of  shore  at  last ! 

To  the  spirit  its  .splendid  conjectures, 
To  the  flesh  its  sweet  despair. 
Its  tears  o'er  the  thin-worn  locket 
With  its  anguish  of  deathless  hair ! 

Immortal  ?     I  feel  it  and  know  it, 
Who  doubts  it  of  such  as  she  ? 
But  that  is  the  pang's  very  secret, — • 
Immortal  away  from  me. 


228 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


There  's  a  narrow  ridge  in  tlie  graveyard 
Would  scarce  stay  a  chilil  in  his  race, 
]>ut  to  me  and  my  thought  it  is  wider 
Than  tlie  star-sown  vague  of  Space. 

Your  logic,  my  friend,  is  perfect, 
Your  morals  most  drearily  true ; 
But,  since  the  earth  clashwtl  on  her  coffin, 

I  keep  hearing  that,  and  not  you. 

Console  if  you  will,  I  can  bear  it ; 
'T  is  a  well-meant  alms  of  breath ; 
But  not  all  the  preaching  since  Adam 
Has  made  Death  other  than  Death. 

I I  is  pagan  ;  but  wait  till  you  feel  it,  — 
That  jar  of  our  earth,  that  dull  shock 
"When  the  ploughshare  of  deeper  passion 
Tears  down  to  our  priihitive  rock. 

Communion  in  spirit !     Forgive  me. 
But  I,  who  am  earthy  and  weak, 
Would  give  all  my  incomes  from  dream- 
land 
For  a  touch  of  her  hand  on  my  cheek. 

That  little  shoe  in  the  corner. 
So  worn  and  wrinkled  and  In'own, 
With  its  emptiness  confutes  you, 
And  argues  your  wisdom  down. 


COMMEMORATION  ODE. 

Harvard  University,  July  21,  1865. 

Life  may  be  given  in  many  ways, 
And  loyalty  to  Truth  be  sealed 
As  bravely  in  the  closet  as  the  field, 
So  generous  is  Fate ; 
But  then  to  stand  beside  her. 
When  craven  churls  deride  her. 
To  front  a  lie  in  arms,  and  not  to  yield,  — 
This  shows,  methinks,  God's  plan 
And  measure  of  a  stalwart  man. 
Limbed  like  the  old  heroic  breeds. 
Who  stand  self-poised  on  manhood's 

solid  earth, 
Not  forced  to  frame  excuses  for  his 
birth. 
Fed  from  within  with  all  the  strength  he 

needs. 
Such  was  he,  our  Martyr-Chief, 

Whom  lati^  the  Nation  he  had  led, 
With  asiies  on  her  head. 
Wept  with  the  passion  of  an  angry  grief : 


Forgive  me,   if  from   present  thing.s   I 

turn 
To  speak  what  in  my  heart  will  beat  and 

burn. 
And  hang  my  wreath  on  his  world-hou- 
ored  urn. 
Nature,  they  say,  doth  dote, 
And  cannot  make  a  man 
Save  on  some  worn-out  plan, 
Repeating  us  by  rote : 
For  him  her  Old- World   moulds   aside 
she  threw. 
And,  choosing  sweet  clay  from  the 

breast 
Of  the  unexhausted  West, 
With  stutt"  untainted  shaped  a  hero  new, 
Wise,  steadfast  in  the  strength  of  God, 
and  true. 
How  beautiful  to  see 
Once  more  a  shepherd  of  mankind  indeed, 
AVho  loved  his  charge,  but  never  loved 

to  lead ; 
One  whose  meek  Hock  the  people  joyed 
to  be. 
Not  lur(>d  by  any  cheat  of  birth, 
But    by   his    clear-grained   human 
worth. 
And  brave  old  wisdom  of  sincerity ! 

They  knew  that  outward  grace   is 

dust ; 
They  could  not  choose  but  trust 
In  that  sure-footed  mind's  unfaltering 
skill. 
And  supple-tempered  will 
That  bent  like  perfect   steel   to   sjiring 
again  and  thrust. 
His  was   no   lonely  mountain-peak 

of  mind, 
Thrusting  to  thin  air  o'er  our  cloudy 

bars, 
A  seamark  now,  now  lost  in  vapors 

blind ; 
Broad   prairie   rather,  genial,  level- 
lined, 
Fruitful  and  friendly  for  all  human 
kind. 
Yet  al.so  nigh  to  Heaven  and  loved  of 
loftiest  stars. 
Nothing  of  Europe  here. 
Or,  then,  of  Europe  fronting  mornward 
still, 
Ere  any  names  of  Serf  and  Peer 
Could  Nature's  e([ual  scheme  deface  ; 
Here  was  a  type  of  the  true  elder 
race, 
And  one  of  Plutarch's  men  talked  with 
us  face  to  face. 


MAEIA   WHITE   LOWELL. 


229 


I  praise  him  not ;  it  were  too  late ; 
And  some  inuative  weakness  there  must 

be 
In  him  who  condescends  to  victory 
Such  as  the  Present  gives,  and   cannot 
wait, 
Safe  in  himself  as  in  a  fate. 
So  ahvaj's  firmly  he : 
He  knew  to  bide  his  time, 
And  can  his  fame  abide, 
Still  patient  in  his  simple  faith  sublime. 
Till  the  wise  years  decide. 
Great  captains,  with  their  guns  and 

drums, 
Disturb  our  judgment  for  the  hour. 
But  at  last  silence  comes : 
These  all  are  gone,  and,  standing  like  a 

tower, 
Our  children  shall  behold  his  fame, 
The   kindly-earnest,  brave,  foreseeing 
man. 
Sagacious,  patient,  dreading   praise,  not 
blame, 
New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first 
American. 


We  sit  here  in  the  Promised  Land 
That  flows  with  Freedom's  honey  and 

milk : 
But  't  was  the)'  won  it,  sword  in  hand, 
Making  the  nettle  danger  soft  for  us  as 
silk. 
We  welcome  back  our  bravest  and  our 

best ;  — 
Ah,  me !  not  all !  some  come  not  with 
the  rest, 
Who  went  forth  brave  and  bright  as  any 

here ! 
I  strive  to  mix  some  gladness  with  my 
strain, 
But  the  sad  strings  complain, 
And  will  not  please  the  ear ; 
I  sweep  them  for  a  piean,  but  they  wane 

Again  and  yet  again 
Into  a  dirge,  and  die  away  in  pain. 
In  these  brave  ranks  I  only  see  the  gaps. 
Thinking  of  dear  ones  whom  the  dumb 

turf  wraps, 
Dark  to  the  triumph  which  they  died  to 
gain: 
Fitlier  may  ofhers  gi-eet  the  living, 
For  me  the  past  is  unforgiving ; 
I  with  uncovered  head 
Salute  the  sacred  dead. 
Who  went,  and  who  return  not.  — 
Say  not  so ! 


'T  is  not  the  grapes  of  Canaan  that  repaj', 
But  the  high  faith  that  failed  not  by  the 

way ; 
Vii-tue  treads  paths  that  end  not  in  the 

grave ; 
No  bar  of  endless  night  exiles  the  brave ; 

And  to  the  saner  mind 
We  rather  seem  the  dead  that  stayed  be- 

hhid. 
Blow,  trumpets,  all  your  exultationsblow ! 
For  never  shall  their  aureoled  presence 

lack : 
I  see  them  muster  in  a  gleaming  row. 
With  ever-youthful    brows   that   nobler 

show ; 
We  find  in  our  dull  road  their  shining 

track ; 
In  ever}'  nobler  mood 
We  feel  the  orient  of  their  spirit  glow, 
Part  of  our  life's  unalterable  good, 
Of  all  our  saintlier  aspiration ; 

They  come  transfigured  back. 
Secure  from  change  in  their  high-hearted 

ways. 
Beautiful  evermore,  and  with  the  rays 
Of  morn  on  their  white  Shields  of  Ex- 
pectation ! 


MAEIA  WHITE  LOWELL. 

[U.    S.    A.,    1821-1853.] 

THE  ALPINE  SHEEP. 

When  on  my  ear  your  loss  was  knelled, 
And  tender  sympathy  upburst, 

A  little  spring  from  memory  welled, 
Which  once  had  quenched  my  bitter 
thirst. 

And  I  was  fain  to  bear  to  you 

A  portion  of  its  mild  relief. 
That  it  might  be  as  healhig  dew, 

To  steal  some  fever  from  your  giief. 

After  our  child's  untroubled  breath 
Up  to  the  Father  took  its  way, 

And  on  our  home  the  shade  of  JDeath 
Like  a  long  twilight  haunting  lay, 

And  friends  came  round,  with  us  to  weep 
Her  little  spirit's  swift  remove, 

The  story  of  the  Alpine  sheep 
Was  told  to  us  by  one  we  love. 


230 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


They,  in  the  valley's  shelteiiiig  care, 
Soon  crop  the  meadow's  tender  ])rime, 

And  when  the  sod  grows  brown  and  bare, 
The  shepherd  strives  to  make  them 
climb 

To  airy  shelves  of  pasture  green, 

Tliat  hang  along  the  mountain's  side, 

Where  grass  and  flowers  together  lean. 
And  (iown  through  mist  the  sunbeams 
slide. 

But  naught  can  tempt  the  timid  things 
The  steep  and  rugged  paths  to  try. 

Though   sweet   the   shepherd  calls  and 
sings, 
And  seared  below  the  pastures  lie. 

Till  in  his  arms  their  lambs  he  takes, 
Along  the  dizzy  verge  to  go ; 

Then,  heedless  of  the  rifts  and  breaks, 
They  follow  on,  o'er  rock  and  snow. 

And  in  those  pastures,  lifted  fair. 
More  dewy-soft  than  lowland  mead, 

The  shepherd  drops  his  tender  care. 
And  sheep  and  lambs  together  feed. 

This  paralile,  by  Nature  breathed. 
Blew  on  me  as  the  soutli-wind  free 

O'er  frozen  brooks,  that  flow  unsheathed 
From  icy  thraldom  to  the  sea. 

A  blissful  vision,  through  the  night, 
AVould  all  my  liaj)py  senses  sway, 

Of  the  good  Shepherd  on  the  height, 
Or  climbing  up  the  starry  way. 

Holding  our  little  lamb  asleep,  — 
While,  like  the  murmur  of  the  sea. 

Sounded  that  voice  along  the  deep. 
Saying,  "Arise  and  follow  me!" 


THOMAS  W.  PARSONS. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

CAMPANILE  DE  PISA. 

Snow  was  glistening  on  the  mountains, 
but  the  air  was  that  of  June, 

Leaves  were  falling,  but  tlu;  runnels  play- 
ing still  their  summer  tune, 


And  the  dial's  lazy  sliadow  hovered  nigh 

the  brink  of  noon. 
On  the  benches  in  the  market,  rows  of 

languid  idlers  lay, 
When  to  Pisa's  nodding  belfry,  with  a 

friend,  I  took  my  way. 

From  the  top  we  looked  around  us,  and 

as  far  as  eye  might  strain. 
Saw  no  sign  of  life  or  motion  in  the  town, 

or  on  the  plain, 
Hardly  seemed  the  river  moving,  through 

the  willows  to  the  main  ; 
Nor  was  any  noise  disturbing  Pisa  from 

her  drowsy  hour, 
Save  the  doves  that  fluttered  'neatli  us, 

in  and  out  and  round  the  tower. 

Not  a  shout  from  gladsome  children,  or 

the  clatter  of  a  wheel. 
Nor  the  spinner  of  the  suburb,  winding 

his  discordant  reel. 
Nor  the  stroke  upon  the  pavement  of  a 

hoof  or  of  a  heel. 
Even  the  slumberers,  in  the  churchyard 

of  the  Campo  Santo  seemed 
Scarce  more  quiet  than  the  living  world 

that  underneath  us  dreamed. 

Dozing  at  the  city's  portal,  heedless  guard 

the  sentry  kept. 
More  than  oriental  dulncss  o'er  the  sunny 

farms  had  crept. 
Near  the  walls  the  ducal  lierdsman  by  the 

dusty  roadside  slept ; 
While  his  camels,    resting  round  him, 

half  alarmed  the  sullen  ox. 
Seeing  those  Arabian  monsters  pasturing 

with  Etruria's  flocks. 

Then  it  was,  like  one  who  wandered,  late- 
ly, singing  by  the  Rhine, 

Strains  perchance  to  maiden's  hearing 
sweeter  than  this  verse  of  mine. 

That  we  bade  Imagination  lift  us  on  her 
wing  divine. 

And  the  days  of  Pisa's  greatness  rose  from 
the  sepulchral  past, 

When  a  thousand  c^oncpiering  galleys  bore 
her  standard  at  the  mast. 

Memory  for  a  moment  crowned  her  sov- 
ereign mistress  of  the  seas. 

When  she  braved,  upon  the  billows,  Ven- 
ice and  the  Genoese, 

Daring  to  deride  the  Pontiff,  though  he 
shook  his  angry  keys. 


THOMAS   W.   PARSONS. 


231 


When  her  admirals  tjiumphant,  riding 

o'er  the  Soldaii's  waves, 
Brought  from  Cah-ary's  holy  mountain 

fitting  soil  for  knightly  graves. 

When  the  Saracen  surrendered,  one  by 

one,  his  pirate  isles. 
And    Ionia's    marbled   trophies   decked 

Lungarno's  Gothic  piles. 
Where  the  festal  music  floated  in  the  light 

of  ladies'  smiles ; 
Soldiers  in  the  busy  court-yard,  nobles 

in  the  hall  above, 
O,  those  days  of  arms  are  over, — arms  and 

courtesy  and  love ! 

Down  in  yonder  square  at  sunrise,  lo ! 

the  Tuscan  troops  arrayed. 
Every  man  in  Milan   armor,  forged  in 

Brescia  every  blade  : 
Sigismondi  is  their  captain  —  Florence  ! 

art  thou  not  dismayed  ? 
There 's  Lanfranchi !  there  the  bravest  of 

Gherardesca  stem, 
Hugolino — with  the  bishop ;  but  enough, 

enough  of  them. 

Now,  as  on  Achilles'  buckler,  next  a 
peaceful  scene  succeeds  ; 

Pious  crowds  in  the  cathedral  duly  tell 
their  blessed  beads ; 

Students  walk  the  learned  cloister; 
Ariosto  wakes  the  reeds ; 

Science  dawns ;  and  Galileo  opens  to  the 
Italian  youth, 

As  he  were  a  new  Columbus,  new  dis- 
covered realms  of  truth. 

Hark ;  what  murmurs  from  the  million 

in  the  bustling  market  rise  ! 
All  the  lanes  are  loud   with  voices,  all 

the  windows  dark  with  eyes ; 
Black  with  men  the  marble  bridges,  heaped 

the  shores  with  merchandise ; 
Turks  and  Greeks  and  Libj'an  merchants 

in  the  square  their  councils  hold, 
And  the  Christian  altars  glitter  gorgeous 

with  Byzantine  gold. 

Look  !  anon  the  masqueraders  don  their 

holiday  attire ; 
Every  palace  is  illumined,  — all  the  town 

seems  built  of  fire,  — 
Rainbow-colored  lanterns  dangle    from 

the  top  of  every  spire. 


Pisa's  patron  saint  hath  hallowed  to  him- 
self the  joyful  day, 

Never  on  the  thronged  Rialto  showed  the 
Carnival  more  gay. 

Suddenly  the  bell  beneath  us  broke  the 

vision  with  its  chime  ; 
"Signors,"  quoth    our   gray  attendant, 

"it  is  almost  vesper  time"  ; 
Vulgar  life  i-esumed  its  empire,  —  down  we 

dropt  from  the  sublime. 
Here  and  there  a  friar  passed  us,  as  we 

paced  the  silent  streets, 
And  a  cardinal's  rumbling  carriage  roused 

the  sleepers  from  the  seats. 


ON  A  BUST  OF  DANTE. 

See,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him 

Whom  Arno  shall  remember  long, 
How  stern  of  lineament,  how  grim 

The  father  was  of  Tuscan  song. 
There  but  the  burning  sense  of  wrong, 

Perpetual  care  and  scorn  abide ; 
Small  friendshi])  for  the  lordly  throng ; 

Distrust  of  all  the  world  beside. 

Faithful  if  this  Man  image  be. 

No  dream  his  life  was,  —  but  a  fight ; 
Could  any  Beatrice  see 

A  lover  in  that  anchorite? 
To  that  cold  Ghibeline's  gloomy  sight 

Who  could  have  guessed  the  visions 
came 
Of  beauty,  veiled  with  heavenly  light, 

In  circles  of  eternal  flame  ? 

The  lips,  as  Cumse's  cavern  close, 

The  cheeks,  with  fast  and  sorrow  thin, 
The  rigid  front,  almost  morose, 

But  for  the  patient  hope  within, 
Declare  a  life  whose  course  hath  been 

Unsullied  still,  though  still  severe. 
Which,  through  the  wavering  days  of  sin. 

Keep  itself  icy-chaste  and  clear. 

Not  wholly  such  his  haggard  look 

When    wandering     once,    forlorn    he 
strayed, 
With  no  companion  save  his  book. 

To  Corvo's  hushed  monastic  shade: 
Where,  as  the  Benedictine  laid 

His  palm  upon  the  pilgrim -guest, 
The  single  boon  for  which  he  prayed 

The  convent's  charity  was  rest. 


232 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Peace  dwells  not  here,  — tins  I'Uggedfaee 

Betrays  no  sjiirit  of  repose ; 
The  sullen  warrior  sole  we  trace, 

The  marble  man  of  many  woes. 
Such  was  his  mien  when  first  arose 

The  thought  of  that  strange  tale  divine, 
AVhcn  hell  he  peopled  with  his  foes, 

The  scourge  of  many  a  guilty  line. 

"War  to  the  last  he  waged  with  all 

The  tyrant  canker-worms  of  earth ; 
Baron  and  duke,  in  hold  and  hall. 

Cursed  the  dark  hour  that  gave  him 
birth ; 
He  used  Rome's  harlot  for  his  mirth  ; 

Plucked  bare  hj'])ocrisy  and  crime ; 
But  valiant  souls  of  knightly  worth 

Transmitted  to  the  rolls  of  Time. 

0  Time  !  whose  verdicts  mock  our  own, 

The  only  righteous  judge  art  thou; 
That  poor  old  exile,  sad  and  lone, 

Is  Latium's  other  Virgil  now: 
Before  Ids  name  the  nations  bow : 

His  words  are  parcel  of  mankind, 
Deep  in  whose  hearts,  as  on  his  brow, 

The  marks  have  sunk  of  Dante's  mind. 


JOHN  G.  SxVXE. 

[U.  8.  A.] 

WISHING. 

Of  all  amuaements  for  the  mind, 

From  logic  down  to  Hshing, 
There  is  n't  one  that  you  can  find 

So  very  cheap  as  "wishing." 
A  very  choice  diversion  too. 

If  we  but  rightly  use  it. 
And  not,  as  we  are  apt  to  do, 

Pervert  it,  and  abuse  it. 

I  wish  —  a  common  wish,  indeed  — 

My  purse  were  somewhat  fatter. 
That  I  might  cheer  the  child  of  need, 

And  not  my  ])ride  to  flatter  ; 
That  1  might  make  Oppression  reel, 

As  only  gold  can  make  it, 
And  break  thci  Tyrant's  rod  of  steel, 

As  only  gold  can  break  it. 

I  wish  —  that  Sympathy  and  Love, 
And  every  human  passion 


That  has  its  origin  above. 

Would  come  and  keep  in  fashion  ; 
That  Scorn  and  Jealousy  and  Hate, 

And  every  base  emotion, 
Were  buried  fifty  fathom  deep 

Beneath  the  waves  of  Ocean  ! 

I  wish  —  that  friends  were  always  true, 

And  motives  always  pure  ; 
I  wish  the  good  were  not  so  few, 

I  wish  the  bad  were  fewer  ; 
I  wish  that  parsons  ne'er  forgot 

To  heed  their  pious  teaching ; 
I  wish  that  practising  was  not 

So  different  from  preaching  ! 

I  wish  —  that  modest  worth  might  be 

Appraised  with  truth  and  candor  ; 
I  wish  that  innocence  were  free 

From  treachery  and  slander  ; 
I  wish  that  men  their  vows  would  mind ; 

That  women  ne'er  were  rovers  ; 
I  wish  that  wives  were  always  kind. 

And  husbands  always  lovers  ! 

I  wish  —  in  fine  —  that  Joy  and  IMirth, 

And  every  good  Ideal, 
May  come  erewhile  throughout  the  earth 

To  be  the  glorious  Real ; 
Till  God  shall  every  creature  bless 

With  his  supremest  blessing, 
And  Hope  be  lost  in  Happiness, 

And  Wishing  in  Possessing  ! 


SLEEP  AND  DEATH. 

Two  wandering  angels.  Sleep  and  Death, 
Once  met  in  sunny  weather  : 

And  while  the  twain  were  taking  breath. 
They  held  discourse  together. 

Quoth  Sleep  (whose  face,  though  twice 
as  fair, 

Was  strangely  like  the  other's,  — 
So  like,  in  sooth,  that  anywhere 

They  might  have  passed  for  brothers)  : 

"A  busy  life  is  mine,  I  trow* 

Would  I  were  omnipresent ! 
So  fast  and  far  have  I  to  go  ; 

And  yet  my  work  is  pleasant. 

"  I  cast  my  potent  poppies  forth, 
And  lo  !  —  the  cares  that  cumber 


SAEAII   HELEN  "WHITMAN, 


23: 


The  toiling,  suffering  sons  of  earth 
Are  drowned  in  sweetest  shimber. 

"The  strident  rests  his  weary  brain, 
And  waits  the  fresher  morrow  ; 

I  ease  the  patient  of  his  pain, 
The  mourner  of  his  sorrow. 

"  I  bar  the  gates  where  cares  abide, 
And  open  Pleasure's  portals 

To  visioned  joys ;  thus,  far  and  wide, 
I  earn  the  praise  of  mortals." 

"Alas  !  "  replied  the  other,  "  mine 

Is  not  a  task  so  gi-ateful ; 
Howe'er  to  mercy  I  incline, 

To  mortals  I  am  hateful. 

"They  call  me  '  Kill-joy,'  every  one. 
And  speak  in  sharp  detraction 

Of  all  I  do  ;  yet  have  I  done 
Full  many  a  kindly  action." 

"True  !"  answ^ered  Sleep,  "but  all  the 
while 

Thine  office  is  berated, 
'T  is  only  by  the  vile  and  weak 

That  thou  art  feared  and  hated. 

"And  though  thy  work  on  earth  has 
given 

To  all  a  shade  of  sadness  ; 
Consider  —  every  saint  in  heaven 

Kemembers  thee  with  gladness  !  " 


SARAH  HELEN  WHITMAN. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

A  STILL  DAY  IN  AUTUMN. 

I  LOVE  to  wander  through  the  wood- 
lands hoary 
In  the  soft  light  of  an  autumnal  day, 
When  Summer  gathers  up  her  robes  of 

And  like  a  dream   of  beauty  glides 
away. 

How  through  each  loved,  familiar  path 
she  lingers, 
Serenely  smiling  through  the  golden 
mist. 


Tinting  the  wild  grape  with  her  dewy 
fingers 
Till  the  cool  emerald  turns  to  ame- 
thyst : 

Kindling  the  faint  stars  of  the  hazel, 
shining 
To  light  the  gloom  of  Autumn's  moul- 
dering halls 
With  hoary  }ilumes  the  clematis  entw  iii- 
ing 
Where  o'er  the  rock  her  withered  gar- 
laud  falls. 

Warm  lights  are  on  the  sleepy  uplands 
waning 
Beneath  soft  clouds  along  the  horiziiii 
rolled, 
Till  the  slant  sunbeams  through  their 
fringes  raining 
Bathe  all  the  hills  in  melancholy  gold. 

The    moist    winds    breathe    of    crisjied 
leaves  and  flowei's 
In  the  damp  hollows  of  the  woodland 
sown, 
Mingling    the    freshness    of   autumnal 
showers 
With   spicy  airs  from  cedaru  alleys 
blown. 

Beside  the  brook  and  on  the  umbered 
meadow. 
Where  yellow  fern-tufts  fleck  the  faded 
ground. 
With  folded   lids  beneath  their  palmy 
shadow 
The  gentian  nods,  in  dewy  slumbers 
bound. 

Upon  those  soft,  fringed  lids  the  bee  sits 
brooding. 
Like  a  fond  lover  loath  to  say  farewell. 
Or    with    shut    wings,    through    silken 
folds  intruding. 
Creeps  near  her  heart  his  drowsy  tale 
to  tell. 

The  little  birds  upon  the  hillside  lonely 
Flit  noiselessly  along  from  spray  "to 
spray. 
Silent   as   a   sweet   wandering    thought 
that  only 
Shows  its    bright  wings   and   softly 
glides  away. 


234 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


ALFEED  B.  STEEET. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

THE  SETTLER. 

His  echoing  axe  the  settler  swung 

Amid  the  sea-like  solitude, 
And,   rushing,   thundering,   down  were 
flung 

The  Titans  of  the  wood  ; 
Loud  slirieked  the  eagle,  as  he  dashed 
From  out  his  mossy  nest,  which  crashed 

With  its  supporting  bough, 
And  the  first  sunlight,  leaping,  flashed 

On  the  wolfs  haunt  below. 

Rude  was  the  garb,  and  strong  the  frame 

Of  him  who  plied  his  ceaseless  toil : 
To  form  that  garb  the  wild-wood  game 

Contributed  their  spoil ; 
The  soul  that  warmed  that  frame  dis- 
dained 
The  tinsel,  gaud,  and  glare,  that  reigned 

Where  men  their  crowds  collect ; 
The  simple  fur,  untrimmed,  unstained, 

This  forest-tamer  decked. 

The  paths  which  wound  mid  gorgeous 
trees. 

The  stream  whose  bright  lips  kissed 
their  flowers, 
The  winds  that  swelled  their  harmonies 

Through  those  sun-hiding  bowers, 
The  temple  vast,  the  green  arcade. 
The  nestling  vale,  the  grassy  glade, 

Dark  cave,  and  swampy  lair  : 
These  scenes  and  sounds  majestic  made 

His  world,  his  pleasures,  there. 

His  roof  adorned  a  pleasant  spot, 

Mid  the  black  logs  green  glowed  the 
grain. 
And  herbs  and  plants  the  woods  knew 
not 

Throve  in  the  sun  and  rain. 
The  smoke-wreath  curling  o'er  the  dell. 
The  low,  the  bleat,  the  tinkling  bell. 

All  made  a  landscape  strange. 
Which  was  the  living  chronicle 

Of  deeds  that  wrought  the  change. 

The  violet  sprung  at  spring's  first  tinge, 
The  ros(^  of  summer  sj)read  its  glow, 

Tiie  maize  hung  out  its  autumn  fringe. 
Rude  winter  brought  his  snow  ; 

And  still  the  lone  one  labored  there, 


His  shout  and  whistle  broke  the  air, 

As  cheerily  he  plied 
His  garden-spade,  or  drove  his  share 

Along  the  hillock's  side. 

He  marked  the  fire-storm's  blazing  flood 

Roaring  and  crackling  on  its  iiath. 
And  scorching  earth,  and  melting  wood, 

Beneath  its  greedy  wrath  ; 
He  marked  the  rapid  whirlwind  shoot, 
Trampling  the  pine-tree  with  its  foot, 

And  darkening  thick  the  day 
With  streaming  bough  and  severed  root, 

Hurled  whizzing  on  its  way. 

His  gaunt  hound  yelled,  his  rifle  flashed, 

The  grim  bear  hushed  his  savage  growl ; 
In   blood   and   and    foam   the    panther 
gnashed 

His  fangs,  with  dying  howl  ; 
The  fleet  deer  ceased  its  flying  bound. 
Its  snarling  wolf-foe  bit  the  ground. 

And,  with  its  moaning  cry, 
The  beaver  sank  beneath  the  wound 

Its  pond-built  Venice  by. 

Humble  the  lot,  yet  his  the  race, 

"\\Tien  Liberty  sent  forth  her  cry, 
Who   thronged    in    conflict's    deadliest 
place. 

To  fight,  —to  bleed,  —to  die  ! 
Who  cumbered  Bunker's  height  of  red. 
By  hope  through  weary  years  were  led, 

And  witnessed  Yorktown's  sun 
Blaze  on  a  nation's  banner  spread, 

A  nation's  freedom  won. 


CHEISTOPHEE  P.  CEANCH. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

STANZAS. 

Thottght  is  deeper  than  all  speech. 
Feeling  dei^per  than  all  thought ; 

Souls  to  souls  can  nevcjr  teach 

What  unto  themselves  was  taught. 

We  are  spirits  clad  in  veils ; 

Man  by  man  was  never  seen ; 
All  our  deep  comnnming  fails 

To  remove  the  shadowy  screen. 

Heart  to  heart  was  never  known, 
Mind  with  mind  did  never  meet ; 


WILLIAM  E.   CHANNING.  —  JULIA  WARD   HOWE. 


235 


We  are  columns  left  alone 
Of  a  temple  ouce  complete. 

Like  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky, 
Far  ajiart,  though  seeming  near, 

In  our  light  we  scattered  lie ; 
All  is  thus  but  starlight  here. 

What  is  social  comiiany 

But  a  babbling  summer  stream? 
What  our  wise  philosophy 

But  the  glancing  of  a  dream  ? 

Only  when  the  sun  of  love 

Alelts  the  scattered  stars  of  thought ; 
Only  when  we  live  above 

What  the  dim-eyed  world  hath  taught ; 

Only  when  our  souls  are  fed 

By  the  Fount  which  gave  them  birth, 
And  by  inspiration  led, 

Which  they  never  drew  from  earth. 

We  like  parted  drops  of  rain 
Swelling  till  they  meet  and  run, 

Shall  be  all  absorbed  again, 
Melting,  flowing  into  one. 


WILLIAM  E.  CHANNING. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

SLEEPY   HOLLOW. 

No  abbey's  gloom,  nor  dark  cathedral 
stoops, 
No  winding  torches  paint  the  midnight 
air; 
Here  the  green  pines  delight,  the  aspen 
droops 
Along  the  modest  pathways,  and  those 
fair 
Pale   asters   of  the  season  spread  their 
plumes 
Around  this  field,  fit  garden  for  our 
tombs. 

And  shalt  thou  pause  to  hear  some  fu- 
neral bell 
Slow   stealing  o'er  thy  heart  in  this 
calm  place, 
Not  with  a  throb  of  pain,  a  feverish  knell. 
But  in  its  kind  and  supplicating  grace, 


It  says.  Go,  pilgrim,  on  thy  march,  bo 
more 
Friend  to  the  friendless  than  thou  wast 
before ; 

Learn  from  the  loved  one's  rest  serenity; 
To-morrow  that  soft  bell  for  thee  shall 
sound. 
And  thou  rejiose  beneath  the  whisiier- 
ing  tree. 
One  tribute  more  to  this  submissive 
ground;  — 
Prison  thy  soul  from  malice,  bar  out  pride. 
Nor  these  pale  flowers  nor  this  still 
field  deride : 

Rather  to  those  ascents  of  being  turn. 
Where  a  ne'er-setting  sun  illumes  the 
year 
Eternal,  and   the   incessant   watch-fires 
burn 
Of    unspent    holiness    and   goodness 
clear,  — 
Forget  man's  littleness,  deserve  the  best, 
God's  mercy  in  thy  thought  and  life 
confest. 


JULIA  WARD  HOWE. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

FROM  "A  TRIBUTE  TO  A  SERVANT." 

Not  often  to  the  parting  soul 
Does  Life  in  dreary  grimness  show  ; 
Earth's  captive,  leaving  ])rison-walls. 
Beholds  them  touched  with  sunset  glow. 

And  she  forgot  her  sleepless  nights. 
Her  weary  tasks  of  foot  and  hand. 
And,  soothed  with  thoughts  of  jjleasant- 

ness. 
Lay  floating  towards  the  silent  land. 

The  talk  of  comfortable  hours, 
The  merry  dancing  tunes  I  played. 
Gay  banquets  with  the  children  shared, 
And  summer  days  in  greenwood  shade, — 

They  lay  far  scattered  in  the  past. 
Through  the  dim  vista  of  disease ; 
But  when  I  spake,  and  held  her  hand. 
The   parting  cloud  showed  things  like 
these. 


236 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


I  qxiestioiied  not  her  peace  witli  God, 
Nor  pried  into  her  guiltless  mind, 
Like  those  unskilful  surgeon-priests 
Who  rack  the  soul  with  prohings  blind. 

For  I  've  seen  men  who  meant  not  ill 
Compidling  doctrine  out  of  Death, 
With  Hell  and  Heaven  acutely  poised 
Upon  the  turning  of  a  breath ; 

While  agonizing  judgments  hung 
Ev'n  on  the  Saviour's  helpful  name ; 
As  mild  Madonna's  form,  of  old, 
A  hideous  torture-tool  became. 

I  could  but  saj^,  with  faltering  voice 
And  eyes  that  glanced  aside  to  weep, 
"  Be  strong  in  faith  and  hope,  my  child ; 
He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep. 

"And  though  thou  walk  the  shadowy  vale 
Whose  end  we  know  not,  He  will  aid ; 
His  rod  and  staff  shall  stay  thy  steps." 
"I  know  it  well,"she  smiled  and  said. 

She  knew  it  v^ell,  and  knew  yet  more 
IVIy  deepest  hope,  though  unexprest. 
The  hoi)e  that  God's  appointed  sleep 
But  heightens  ravishment  with  rest. 

My  children,  living  flowers,  shall  come 
And  strew  with  seed  this  grave  of  thine, 
And  bid  the  lilushing  growths  of  Spring 
Tliy  dreary  painted  cross  entwine. 

Thus  Faith,  east  out  of  barren  creeds, 
Shall  rest  in  end)lems  of  her  own  ; 
Beauty  still  springing  from  Dcicay, 
The  cross-wood  budding  to  the  crown. 


BATTLE  HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 

MiXE  eyes  have  seen  the  gloiy  of  the 

coming  of  the  Lord : 
He  is  trami)ling  out  the  vintage  where 

the  gi-apes  of  wrath  are  stored ; 
He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of 

his  terrible  swift  sword  ; 

His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  him  iii  the  watch-fires  of  a 
liundnMl  circling  canijis; 

They  have  builded  him  an  altar  in  the 
eveuiug  dews  aJid  damps ; 


I  can  read  his  righteous  sentence  by  the 
dim  and  flaring  lamps. 

His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel,  writ  in  bur- 
nished rows  of  steel : 

"As   ye   deal   with   my   contemners,  so 
with  you  my  grace  shall  deal ; 

Let  the  Hero,  boin  of  woman,  crush  the 
serpent  with  his  heel. 

Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that 
shall  never  call  retreat ; 

He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before 
his  judgment-seat : 

0,  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  him !  be 
jubilant,  my  feet ! 

Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was 
born  across  the  sea. 

With  a  glory  in  his  bosom  that  trans- 
figures you  and  me : 

As  he  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  dio 
to  make  men  free. 

While  God  is  marcliiug  on. 


H.  D.  THOREAU. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

INSPIRATION. 

If  with  light  head  erect  I  sing, 
Though  all  the  Muses  lend  their  force, 
P'rom  my  poor  love  of  anything. 
The  verse   is  weak  and  shallow  as  its 


But  if  with  bended  neck  I  grope, 
Listening  behind  me  for  my  wit, 
With  faith  superior  to  hope, 
More   anxious  to  keep  back  than  for- 
ward it ; 

Making  my  soul  accomplice  there 
Unto  the  flame  my  heart  hath  lit. 
Then  will  the  verse  forever  wear,  — 
Time  cannot  bend  the  line  which  God 
has  wiit. 

I  hearing  get,  who  had  but  ears. 
And  sight,  who  had  but  eyes  before ; 


ELIZABETH   LLOYD   HOWELL.  —  C.   F.   ALEXANDEK. 


237 


I  moments  live,  who  lived  but  years, 
And  truth  discern,  who  knew  but  learn- 
ing's lore. 

Now  chiefly  is  my  natal  hour, 
And  only  now  my  prime  of  life, 
Of  manhood's  strength  it  is  the  flower, 
'T  is   peace's   end,  and  war's  beginning 
strife. 

It  comes  in  summer's  broadest  noon. 
By  a  gray  wall,  or  some  chance  place, 
Unseasoning  time,  insulting  June, 
And  vexing  day  with  its  presuming  face. 

I  will  not  doubt  the  love  untold 
"Which   not   my  worth   nor  want  hath 

bought, 
Which  wooed  me  young,  and  wooed  me 

old. 
And  to  this  evening  hath  mc  brought. 


ELIZABETH  LLOYD  HOWELL. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

MILTON'S  PRAYER  IN  BLINDNESS. 

I  AM  old  and  blind  ! 
Jlen  point  at  me  as  smitten  by  God's 

frown  ; 
Afflicted  and  deserted  of  my  kind  ; 

Yet  I  am  not  cast  down. 

I  am  weak,  yet  strong  ; 
I  murmur  not  that  I  no  longer  see  ; 
Poor,    old,    and    helpless,    I    the    more 
belong. 

Father  supreme  !  to  thee. 

0  merciful  One  ! 
When  men  are  farthest,  then  thou  art 

most  near ; 
When  friends  pass  by  me,  and  my  weak- 
ness shun. 
Thy  chariot  I  hear. 

Thy  glorious  face 
Is   leaning    toward   me ;    and   its    holy 

light 
Bhines   in    upon    my    lonely    dwelling- 
place,  — 
And  there  is  no  jnore  night. 


On  my  bended  knee 
I  recognize  thy  purpose  clearly  shown  : 
ily   vision   thou  hast   dimmed,   that   I 
may  see 

Thyself,  —  thyself  alone. 

I  have  naught  to  fear  ; 
This  darkness  is  the  shadow  of  thy  wing; 
Beneath  it  I  am  almost  sacred  ;  here 

Can  come  no  evil  thing. 

0,  I  seem  to  stand 
Trembling,   where  foot  of  mortal  ne'er 

hath  been. 
Wrapped  in  the  radiance  of  thy  sinless 
land. 
Which  eye  hath  never  seen  ! 

Visions  come  and  go  : 
Shapes  of  resplendent  beauty  round  me 

throng ; 
From  angel  lips  I  seem  to  hear  the  flov  ■ 

Of  soft  and  holy  song. 

It  is  nothing  now, 
Wlien  heaven  is  opening  on  my  sight- 
less eyes  ?  —  ' 
When   airs  from   paradise   refresh   my 
brow. 
The  earth  in  darkness  lies. 

In  a  purer  clime 
Jly  being  fills  with  rapture,  — waves  of 

thought 
Roll  in  upon  my  spirit,  —  strains  sublime 

Break  over  me  unsought. 

Give  me  my  lyre  ! 
I  feel  the  stirrings  of  a  gift  divine  : 
Within  my  bosom  glows  unearthly  fire. 

Lit  by  no  skill  of  mine. 


C.  E.  ALEXANDER. 

THE  BURIAL  OF  MOSES. 

By  Nebo's  lonely  mountain 

On  this  side  Jordan's  wave. 

In  a  vale  in  the  land  of  Moab 

There  lies  a  lonely  grave. 

And  no  man  knows  that  sepulchre, 

And  no  man  saw  it  e'er. 

For  the  angels  of  God  ujitumed  the  sod. 

And  laid  the  dead  man  there. 


238 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


That  was  the  grandest  funeral 

That  ever  passed  on  earth  ; 

But  no  man  heard  the  trampling, 

Or  saw  the  train  go  forth  : 

Noiselessly  as  the  daylight 

Comes  back  when  night  is  done. 

And  the  crimson  streak  on  ocean's  cheek 

Grows  into  the  great  sun. 

Noiselessly  as  the  spring-time 

Her  crown  of  verdure  weaves. 

And  all  the  trees  on  all  the  hills 

Ofien  their  thousand  leaves  ; 

So  without  sound  of  music 

Or  voice  of  them  that  wept, 

Silently  down  from  the  mountain's  crown 

The  great  procession  swept. 

Perchance  the  bald  old  eagle 

On  gray  Beth-Peor's  height, 

Out  of  his  lonely  eyrie 

Looked  on  the  wondrous  sight  ; 

Perchance  the  lion,  stalking. 

Still  shuns  that  hallowed  spot. 

For  beast  and  bird  have  seen  and  heard 

That  which  man  knoweth  not. 

But  when  the  warrior  dieth. 

His  comrades  in  the  war. 

With  arms  reversed  and  muffled  drum. 

Follow  his  funeral  car  ; 

They  show  the  banners  taken, 

They  tell  his  battles  won. 

And  after  liim  lead  his  masterless  steed. 

While  peals  the  minute-gun. 

Amid  the  noblest  of  the  land, 

We  lay  the  sage  to  rest, 

And  give  the  bard  an  honored  place 

AV'itli  costly  marble  drest, 

1  n  the  great  minster  transept 

Wiiere  lights  like  glories  fall, 

And  the  organ  rings  and  the  sweet  choir 

sings 
Along  the  emblazoned  wall. 


This  was  the  truest  warrior 

That  ever  buckled  sword. 

This  the  most  gifted  poet 

That  ever  breathed  a  word  ; 

And  n(!ver  earth's  pliilosophcr 

Tiaced  with  his  golden  pen. 

On  the  deathless  jjuge,   truths   half  so 

sage 
As  he  wrote  down  for  men. 


And  liad  lie  not  high  honor,  — 

The  hillside  for  a  pall 

To  lie  in  state  while  angels  wait 

With  stars  for  tapers  tall. 

And   the  dark   rock-pines   like   tossing 

plumes 
0\"er  his  bier  to  wave. 
And  God's   own   hand,   in   that   lonely 

land. 
To  lay  him  in  the  grave  ? 

In  that  strange  grave  without  a  name 

Whence  his  uncoltined  clay 

Shall  break  again,  0  wondrous  thought ! 

Before  the  judgment-day, 

And  stand  with  glory  wrapt  around 

On  the  hills  he  never  trod. 

And  speak  of  the  strife  that  won  our  life 

With  the  Incarnate  Son  of  God. 

0  lonely  grave  in  Moab's  land  ! 

0  dark  Beth-Peor's  hill  ! 

Speak  to  these  curious  hearts  of  ours. 

And  teach  them  to  be  still. 

God  hath  his  mysteries  of  grace, 

Ways  that  we  cannot  tell ; 

He  hides  them  deep,   like  the  hidden 

sleep 
Of  him  he  loved  so  well. 


E.  H.  SEARS. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

CHRISTMAS  HYMN. 

Calm  on  the  listening  ear  of  night 
Come  Heaven's  melodious  strains, 

Wliere  wild  Judrea  stretches  far 
Her  silver-mantled  plains  ! 

Celestial  choirs,  from  courts  above, 

Shed  sacred  glories  there  ; 
And  angels,  witli  their  sparkling  lyres, 

]\Iake  music  on  the  air. 

The  answering  liills  of  Palestine 
Send  back  the  glad  reply  ; 

And  greet,  from  all  their  lioly  heights, 
The  daysi)ring  from  on  high. 

On  the  blue  depths  of  Galilee 
There  comes  a  liolicT  calm. 

And  Sharon  waves,  in  solemn  praise, 
Her  silent  groves  of  palm. 


THEODORE  PARKEE.  —  FREDERIC   WILLIAM   FABER. 


239 


"  Glory  to  God  !  "  the  sounding  skies 
Loud  with  their  anthems  ling  ; 

Peace  to  the  earth,  good-will  to  men, 
From  heaven's  Eternal  King  ! 

Light  on  thy  hills,  Jerusalem ! 

The  Saviour  now  is  born  ! 
And  bright  on  Bethlehem's  joyous  plains 

Breaks  the  first  Christmas  moru. 


THEODORE  PAEKEE. 

[U.  S.  A.,  lSl2-  i860.] 

THE  "WAT,  THE  TRUTH,  AND  THE  LIFE. 

0  THOU  great  Friend  to  all  the  sons  of 
men, 
Who  once  appeared  in  humblest  guise 
below, 
Sin  to  rebuke,  to  break  the  captive's  chain, 
And  call  thj^  brethren  forth  from  want 
and  woe,  — 

We  look  to  thee !  thy  truth  is  still  the 
Light 
Which  guides  the  nations,  gi-ojiiug  on 
their  way, 
Stumbling  and  fallingindisastrousnight. 
Yet  hoping  ever  for  the  perfect  day. 

Y(^s ;  thou  art  still  the  Life,  thou  art  the 
Way 
The   holiest  know;    Light,  Life,  the 
Way  of  heaven ! 
And  they  who  dearest  hope  and  deepest 
pray 
Toil  by  the  Light,  Life,  Way,  which 
thou  hast  given. 


FEEDEEIC  WILLIAM  FABEE. 

[181S-1863.] 

THE  WILL  OF  GOD. 

I  WORSHIP  thee,  sweet  Will  of  God ! 

And  all  thy  ways  adore. 
And  eveiy  day  I  live  I  seem 

To  love  thee  more  and  more. 

When  obstacles  and  trials  seem 
Like  prison-walls  to  be. 


I  do  the  little  I  can  do. 
And  leave  the  rest  to  thee. 

I  have  no  cares,  0  blessed  Will ! 

For  all  my  cares  are  thine ; 
I  live  in  tiiumph.  Lord !  for  thou 

Hast  made  thy  triumphs  mine. 

And  when  it  seems  no  chance  or  change 

From  gi'ief  can  set  me  free, 
Hope  finds  its  strength  in  helplessness, 

And  gayly  waits  on  thee. 

Man's  weakness  waiting  upon  God 

Its  end  can  never  miss. 
For  men  on  earth  no  work  can  do 

More  angel-like  than  this. 

He  always  wins  who  sides  with  God, 

To  him  no  chance  is  lost ; 
God's  will  is  sweetest  to  him  when 

It  triumphs  at  his  cost. 

Ill  that  he  blesses  is  our  good, 

And  unblest  good  is  ill ; 
And  all  is  right  that  seems  most  wrong, 

If  it  be  his  sweet  Will ! 


THE  EIGHT  MUST  WIN. 

0,  IT  is  hard  to  work  for  God, 

To  rise  and  take  his  part 
L'^pon  this  battle-field  of  earth, 

And  not  sometimes  lose  heart ! 

He  hides  himself  so  wondrously, 
As  though  there  were  no  God ; 

He  is  least  seen  when  all  the  powers 
Of  ill  are  most  abroad. 

Or  he  deserts  us  at  the  hour 

The  fight  is  all  but  lost ; 
And  seems  to  leave  us  to  ourselves 

Just  when  we  need  him  most. 

Ill  masters  good,  good  seems  to  change 

To  ill  with  greatest  ease ; 
And,  worst  of  all,  the  good  with  good 

Is  at  cross-purposes. 

Ah  !  God  is  other  than  we  think ; 

His  ways  are  far  above, 
Far  beyond  reason's  height,  and  reached 

Only  by  childlike  love. 


240 


SONGS   OF  THREE  CENTURIES. 


Workman  of  God  !  0,  lose  not  heart, 
But  learn  what  God  is  like ; 

And  in  the  darkest  battle-field 
Thou  shalt  know  where  to  strike. 

Thrice  blest  is  he  to  wliom  is  given 

The  instinct  that  can  tell 
That  God  is  on  the  field  when  he 

Is  most  invisible. 

Blest,  too,  is  he  who  can  divine 

Where  real  right  doth  lie, 
And  dares  to  take  the  side  that  seems 

Wrong  to  man's  blindfold  eye. 

For  right  is  right,  since  God  is  God ; 

And  right  the  day  must  win  ; 
To  doulit  would  be  disloyalty, 

To  falter  would  be  sin ! 


DAVID   A.WASSON. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

SEEN  AND  TJNSEEN. 

The  wind  ahead,  the  billows  high, 
A  whited  wave,  but  sable  sky. 
And  many  a  league  of  tossing  sea. 
Between  the  hearts  I  love  and  me. 

The  wind  ahead  :  day  after  day 
Tliese  weary  words  the  sailors  say; 
To  weeks  the  days  are  lengthened  now,  — 
Still  mounts  the  surge  to  meet  our  i)row. 

Through  longing  day  and  lingering  night 
I  still  accuse  Time's  lagging  flight, 
Or  gaze  out  o'er  the  envious  sea. 
That  keejis  the  hearts  I  love  from  me. 

Yet,  ah,  how  shallow  is  all  grief ! 
How  instant  is  tiie  deep  relief! 
And  what  a  hypocrite  am  I, 
To  feign  forlorn,  to  'plain  and  sigh ! 

The  wind  ahead  ?    The  wind  is  free ! 
Forevermore  it  favoreth  me,  — 
To  shores  of  God  still  Idowing  fiiir, 
O'er  seas  of  God  my  bark  doth  bear. 

The  surging  brine  /do  not  sail. 
This  blast  adverse  is  not  my  gale ; 


'T  is  here  I  only  seem  to  be, 
But  really  sail  another  sea,  — 

Another  sea,  pure  sky  its  waves, 
Whose  beauty  hides  no  heaving  graves, — 
A  sea  all  haven,  whereupon 
No  hapless  bark  to  wreck  hath  gone. 

The  winds  that  o'er  my  ocean  run, 

Reach  through  all  heavens  beyond  the 
sun ; 

Through  life  and  death,  through  fate, 
through  time, 

Grand  breaths  of  God  they  sweep  sub- 
lime. 

Eternal  trades,  they  cannot  veer, 
And  blowing,  teach  us  how  to  steer; 
And  well  for  him  whose  joy,  whose  care, 
Is  but  to  keep  before  them  fair. 

0,  thou  God's  mariner,  heart  of  mine, 
Spread  canvas  to  the  airs  divine ! 
Spread  sail !  and  let  thy  Fortune  be 
Forgotten  in  thy  Destiny  ! 

For  Destiny  pursues  us  well. 

By  sea,  by  land,  through  heaven  or  hell ; 

It  suffers  Death  alone  to  die, 

Bids  life  all  change  and  chance  defy. 

Would  earth's  dark  ocean  suck  thee  down  ? 
Earth's  ocean  thou,  0  Life,  shalt  drown, 
Shalt  flood  it  with  thy  finer  wave. 
And,  sepulchred,  entomb  thy  grave ! 

Life  loveth  life  and  good :  then  tnist 
AVhat  most  the  spirit  would,  it  must ; 
Deep  wishes,  in  the  heart  that  be. 
Are  blossoms  of  necessity. 

A  thread  of  Law  runs  through  thy  prayer, 
Stronger  than  iron  cables  are ; 
And  Love  and  Longing  toward  her  goal, 
Are  pilots  sweet  to  guide  the  soul. 

So  Life  must  live,  and  Soul  must  sail. 
And  Unseen  over  Seen  prevail. 
And  all  God's  argosies  come  to  shore, 
Let  ocean  smile,  or  rage  and  roar. 

And  so,  mid  storm  or  calm,  my  bark 
With  snowy  wake  still  nears  her  mark ; 
Cheerly  the  trades  of  ])eing  blow, 
And  sweeping  down  the  wind  I  go. 


EICHARD  CHENEVIX  TEENCH. 


241 


ALL'S  WELL. 

SwEET-voic^D  Hope,  thy  fine  discourse 

Foretold  not  half  life's  good  to  me  : 
Thy  painter,  Fancy,  hath  not  force 
To  show  how  sweet  it  is  to  Be ! 

Thy  witching  dream 

And  pictured  scheme 
To  match  the  fact  still  want  the  power ; 

Thy  promise  brave 

From  birth  to  grave 
Life's  boon  may  beggar  in  an  hour. 

Ask  and  receive,  —  't  is  sweetly  said; 
Yet  what  to  ])lead  for  know  I  not; 
For  Wish  is  worsted,  Hope  o'ersped. 
And  aye  to  thanks  I'eturus  my  thought. 

If  I  would  pray, 

I  've  naught  to  say 
But  this,  that  God  may  be  God  still ; 

For  Him  to  live 

Is  still  to  give, 
And  sweeter  than  my  wish  His  will. 

0  wealth  of  life,  beyond  all  bound  ! 
Eternity  each  moment  given  ! 

"What  plummet  may  the  Present  sound? 
Who  promises  a  future  lieaveu  ? 

Or  glad,  or  grieved. 

Oppressed,  relieved, 
In  blackest  night,  or  brightest  day, 

Still  pours  the  flood 

Of  golden  good, 
And  more  than  heart-full  fills  me  aye. 

My  wealth  is  common  ;  I  possess 

No  petty  province,  but  the  whole  ; 
What 's  mine  alone  is  mine  far  less 
Than  treasure  shared  by  every  soul. 

Talk  not  of  store, 

Millions  or  more,  — 
Of  values  which  the  purse  may  hold,  — 

But  this  divine  ! 

I  own  the  mine 
Whose  grains  outweigh  a  planet's  gold. 

1  have  a  stake  in  ever}'  star. 

In  every  beam  that  fills  the  day; 
All  hearts  of  men  my  coffers  are, 
My  ores  arterial  tides  convey ; 
The  fields,  the  skies, 
And  sweet  replies 
Of  thought  to  thought  are  my  gold  dust, — 
The  oaks,  the  brooks. 
And  speaking  looks 
Of  lovers'  faith  and  friendship's  trust. 
16 


Life's  youngest  tides  joy -brimming  flow 

For  him  who  lives  above  all  yeai's. 
Who  all-immortal  makes  the  Now, 
And  is  not  ta'en  in  Time's  arrears: 

His  life  's  a  hymn 

The  seraphim 
Might  hark  to  hear  or  help  to  sing, 

And  to  his  soul 

The  boundless  whole 
Its  bounty  all  doth  daily  bring. 

"All  mine  is  thine,"  the  sky-soul  saith  : 
"The  wealth  I  am,  must  thou  become: 
Richer  and  richer,  breath  by  breath,  — 
Immortal  gain,  immortal  room  !" 

And  since  all  his 

Mine  also  is, 
Life's  gift  outruns  my  fancies  far. 

And  drowns  the  dream 

In  larger  stream. 
As  morning  drinks  the  morning  star. 


ROYALTY. 

That  regal  soul  I  reverence,  in  whose 

eyes 
Suffices  not  all  worth  the  city  knows 
To  pay  that  debt  which  his  own  heart 

he  owes ; 
For  less  than  level  to  his  bosom  rise 
The  low  crowd's  heaven  and  stars  :  above 

their  skies 
Patnneth   the  road  his   daily  feet  have 

pressed ; 
A  loftier  heaven  he  beareth  in  his  breast, 
And  o'er  the  summits  of  achieving  hies 
W^ith  never  a  thought  of  merit  or  of  meed ; 
Choosing  divinest  labors  thi-ough  a  pride 
Of  soul,  tliat  lioldeth  appetite  to  feed 
Ever  on  angel-herbage,  naught  beside ; 
Nor  praises  more  himself  for  hero-deed 
Than  stones  for  weight,  or  open  seas  for 

tide. 


RICHARD  CHENEVIX  TRENCH. 

THE  KINGDOM  OF  GOD. 

I  SAY  to  thee,  do  thou  repeat 

To  the  first  man  thou  maj'^est  meet. 

In  lane,  highway,  or  open  street,  — 

That  he,  and  we,  and  all  men  move 

Under  a  canopy  of  Love, 

As  broad  as  the  blue  sky  above : 


242 


SONGS   OF  THKEE   CENTUKIES. 


That  doubt  and  troiible,  fear  and  pain, 
And  anguish,  all  are  sorrows  vain  ; 
That  death  itself  shall  not  remain : 

Tiiat  weary  deserts  we  may  tread, 
A  dreary  labyrinth  may  thread, 
Through  dark  ways  underground  be  led  ; 

Yet,  if  we  will  our  Guide  obey, 

The  dreariest  path,  the  darkest  way, 

Shall  issue  out  in  heavenly  day. 

And  we,  on  divers  shores  now  cast, 
Shall  meet,  our  perilous  voyage  past, 
All  in  our  Father's  home  at  last. 

And  ere  thou  leave  them,  say  thou  this. 
Yet  one  word  more :   They  only  miss 
The  winning  of  that  final  bliss 

"Who  will  not  count  it  true  that  Love, 
Blessing,  not  cursing,  rules  above, 
And  that  in  it  we  live  and  move. 

And  one  thing  further  make  hiin  know. 
That  to  believe  these  things  are  so, 
This  firm  faith  never  to  forego,  — 

Despite  of  all  which  seems  at  strife 
With  blessing,  and  with  curses  rife,  — 
That  this  is  blessing,  this  is  life. 


ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH. 

[1819-1861.] 

THE  NEW  SINAI. 

Lo,  here  is  God,  and  there  is  God  ! 

Believe  it  not,  0  man  ! 
In  such  vain  sort  to  this  and  that 

The  ancient  heathen  ran  ; 
Though  old  Religion  shake  her  head, 

Ami  say,  in  bitter  grief. 
The  day  behold,  at  first  foretold. 

Of  atheist  unbelief: 
Take  better  part,  with  manly  heart. 

Thine  adult  spirit  can  ; 
Receive  it  not,  bi^lieve  it  not. 

Believe  it  not,  0  Man  ! 

As  men  at  dead  of  night  awaked 
With  cries,  "The  king  is  licre," 

Eush  forth  and  gi'cct  whomc'er  they  meet. 
Whoe'er  shall  first  a];pear; 


And  still  repeat,  to  all  the  street, 
"'T  is  he,  — the  king  is  here"  ; 

The  long  procession  moveth  on. 
Each  nobler  form  they  see. 

With  changeful  suit  they  still  salute. 
And  cry,  '"T  is  he !  't  is  he  !" 

So,  even  so,  when  men  were  young. 

And  earth  and  heaven  was  new, 
And  His  immediate  presence  he 

From  human  hearts  withdrew, 
The  soul  perplexed  and  daily  vexed 

With  sensuous  False  and  True, 
Amazed,  bereaved,  no  less  believed. 

And  fain  would  see  Him  too. 
"He    is!"    the     prophet-tongues     pro- 
claimed ; 

In  joy  and  hasty  fear, 
"He  is  !"  aloud  replied  the  crowd, 

"Is,  here,  and  here,  and  here." 

"He  is  !   They  are  ! "  in  distance  seen 

On  yon  Olympus  high, 
In  those  Avernian  woods  abide, 

And  walk  this  azure  sky : 
"They  are  !     They  are  !"  to  every  show 

Its  eyes  the  baby  turned. 
And  blazes  sacrificial,  tall, 

On  thousand  altars  burned  : 
"They   are!     They   are!"  —  On   Sinai'» 
top 

Far  seen  the  lightning's  shone, 
The  thunder  broke,  a  trumpet  spoke, 

And  God  said,  "I  am  One." 

God  spake  it  out, "I,  God,  am  One" ; 

The  unheeding  ages  ran. 
And  baby  thoughts  again,  again, 

Have  dogged  the  growing  man  : 
And  as  of  old  from  Sinai's  top 

God  said  that  God  is  One, 
By  Science  strict  so  speaks  he  now 

To  tell  us.  There  is  None ! 
Earth  goes  by  chemic  forces ;  Heaven  's 

A  Mecanique  C'eleste ! 
And  heart  and  mind  of  human  kind 

A  watch-work  as  the  rest ! 

Is  this  a  Voice,  as  was  the  Voice 

Whose  speaking  told  abroad. 
When   thunder    pealed,    and  mountain 
reeled. 

The  ancient  truth  of  God  ? 
Ah,  not  the  Voice ;  't  is  but  the  cloud. 

The  outer  darkness  dense, 
Where  image  none,  nor  e'er  was  seen 

Similitude  of  sense. 


ARTHUR   HUGH   CLOUGH. 


24^ 


'T  is  but  the  cloudy  darkness  dense, 
That  wrapt  the  Mount  around ; 

"While  in  amaze  the  people  stays, 
To  hear  the  Coming  Sound. 

Some  chosen  prophet-soul  the  while 

Shall  dare,  sublimely  meek, 
"Within  the  shroud  of  blackest  cloud 

The  Deity  to  seek  : 
Mill  atheistic  systems  dark. 

And  darker  hearts'  despair. 
That  soul  has  heard  perchance  his  word, 

And  on  the  dusky  air, 
His  skirts,  as  passed  He  by,  to  see 

Hath  strained  on  their  behalf, 
"Who  on  the  plain,  with  dance  amain, 

Adore  the  Golden  Calf. 

'T  is  but  the  cloudy  darkness  dense ; 

Though  blank  the  tale  it  tells, 
Ko  God,  no  Truth !  yet  He,  in  sooth. 

Is  there,  —  within  it  dwells; 
"Within  the  sceptic  darkness  deep 

He  dwells  that  none  may  see, 
Till  idol  forms  and  idol  thoughts 

Have  passed  and  ceased  to  be : 
Ko  God,  no  Truth  !  ah  though,  in  sooth. 

So  stand  the  doctrine's  half ; 
On  Egypt's  track  return  not  back, 

Nor  own  the  Golden  Calf. 

Take  better  part,  with  manlier  heart. 

Thine  adult  spirit  can  : 
Ko  God,  no  Truth,  receive  it  ne'er  — 

Believe  it  ne'er  —  0  Man  ! 
But  turn  not  then  to  seek  again 

What  first  the  ill  began ; 
Ko  God,  it  saith ;  ah,  wait  in  faith 

God's  self-completing  plan ; 
Receive  it  not,  but  leave  it  not. 

And  wait  it  out,  0  man ! 

The  Man  that  went  the  cloud  within 

Is  gone  and  vanished  quite ; 
"He  Cometh  not,"  the  people  cries, 

' '  Kor  bringeth  God  to  sight "  : 
"Lo  these  thy  gods,  that  safety  give, 

Adore  and  keep  the  feast !" 
Deluding  and  deluded  cries 

The  Pro])het's  brother-Priest : 
And  Israel  all  bows  down  to  fall 

Before  the  gilded  beast. 

Devout,  indeed  !  that  priestly  creed, 

0  Man,  reject  as  sin  ! 
The  clouded  hill  attend  thou  still. 

And  him  that  went  within. 


He  yet  shall  bring  some  worthy  thing 

For  waiting  souls  to  see  ; 
Some  sacred  word  that  he  hath  heard 

Their  light  and  life  shall  be ; 
Some  lofty  part,  than  which  the  heart 

Adopt  no  nobler  can, 
Thou  shalt  receive,  thou  shalt  believe. 

And  thou  shalt  do,  0  Man ! 


FROM  THE   "BOTHIE    OF   TOBER-NA- 
VUOLICH." 

"Where  does  Circumstance  end,  and  Prov- 
idence, where  begins  it  ? 

"What  are  we  to  resist,  and  what  are  we 
to  be  friends  with  ? 

If  there  is  battle  't  is  battle  by  night ;  I 
stand  in  the  darkness. 

Here  in  the  midst  of  men,  Ionian  and 
Dorian  on  both  sides. 

Signal  and  password  known;  which  is 
friend,  w-hich  is  foeman  ? 

Is  it  a  friend  ?  I  doubt,  though  he  speak 
with  the  voice  of  a  brother. 

0  that  the  armies  indeed  were  arrayed! 
0  joy  of  the  onset ! 

Sound,  thou  trumpet  of  God,  come  forth 
Great  Cause,  and  array  us ! 

King  and  leader  appear,  thy  soldiers  an- 
swering seek  thee. 

"Would  that  the  armies  indeed  were 
arrayed.     0  where  is  the  battle  ! 

Keither  battle  I  see,  nor  arraying,  nor 
King  in  Israel, 

Only  infinite  jumble  and  mess  and  dis- 
location. 

Backed  by  a  solemn  appeal,  "For  God's 
sake  do  not  stir  there !  " 


TKE  STREAM  OF  LIFE. 

0  STREAM  descending  to  the  sea. 
Thy  mossy  banks  between. 

The  flow'rets  blow,  the  grasses  grow, 
The  leafy  trees  are  green. 

In  garden  plots  the  children  yday, 
"The  fields  the  laboi'ers  till, 

The  houses  stand  on  either  hand, 
And  thou  descendest  still. 

0  life  descending  into  death, 
Our  waking  eyes  behold, 


244 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Parent  and  friend  th}'  lapse  attend, 
Companions  young  and  old. 

Strong  purposes  our  minds  possess, 

Our  hearts  affections  till, 
We  toil  and  earn,  we  seek  and  learn. 

And  thou  descendest  still. 

0  end  to  which  our  currents  tend. 

Inevitable  sea, 
To  which  we  flow,  what  do  we  know. 

What  shall  we  guess  of  thee  ? 

A  roar  we  hear  upon  thy  shore, 

As  we  our  course  fulfil ; 
Scarce  we  divine  a  sun  will  shine 

And  be  above  us  still. 


QUA  CURSUM  VENTUS. 

As  ships  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side, 

Two  towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  day 

Are   scarce,   long    leagues   apart,   de- 
scried ; 

When  fell  the  night,  upsprung  the  breeze, 
And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied. 

Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  selfsame  seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side : 

E'en  so,  — but  why  the  tale  reveal 
Of  those  whom,  year  by  year  unchanged. 

Brief  absence  joined  anew  to  feel, 

Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged  ? 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were  fillod. 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steered  : 

Ah,  neither  blame,  for  neither  willed, 
Or  wist,  what  flrst  with  dawn  appeared ! 

To  veer,  how  vain  !     On,  onward  strain. 
Brave  barks !     In  light,  in  darkness  too. 

Through  winds  and   tides  one  compass 
guides,  — 
To  that,  and  your  own  selves,  be  true. 

But  0  blithe  breeze,  and  0  great  seas. 
Though  ne'er,  that  earliest  partingpast, 

On  your  wide  plain  they  join  ng.'iin. 
Together  lead  them  home  at  last ! 

One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought, 
One  purpose  hold  where'er  they  fare,  — 

0  bounding  breeze,  0  rushing  seas. 
At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there 


SAMUEL  LONGFELLOW. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

THE  GOLDEN  SUNSET. 

The  golden  sea  its  mirror  spreads 

Beneath  the  golden  skies. 
And  but  a  narrow  striji  between 

Of  land  and  shadow  lies. 

The  cloud-like  rocks,  the  rock-like  clouds, 

Dissolved  in  glory  float. 
And,  midway  of  the  radiant  flood, 

Hangs  silently  the  boat. 

The  sea  is  but  another  sky, 

The  sky  a  sea  as  well. 
And  which  is  earth,  and  which  the  heav- 
ens. 

The  eye  can  scarcely  tell. 

So  when  for  us  life's  evening  hour 

Soft  passing  shall  descend. 
May  glory  born  of  earth  and  heaven, 

'The  earth  and  heavens  blend ; 

Flooded  with  peace  the  spirit  float, 

With  silent  rapture  glow, 
Till  where  earth  ends  and  heaven  begins 

The  soul  shall  scarcely  know. 


UNKNOWN. 

QUIET  FROM  GOD. 

Quiet  from  God  !    It  cometh  not  to  still 
The  vast  and  high  aspirings  of  the  soul, 
The  deep  emotions  whi<di  the  spirit  fill. 
And  speed  its  purpose  onward  to  the 
goal ; 
It  dims  not  youth's  bright  eye, 

Bends  not  joy's  lofty  brow, 
No  guiltless  ecstasy 

Need  in  its  presence  bow. 

It  comes  not  in  a  sullen  form,  to  place 
Life's  greatest  good  in  an  inglorious 
rest; 
Through  a  dull,  beaten  track  its  way  to 
trace, 
And  to  lethargicslnmberluU  the  breast ; 
Action  may  be  its  sphere, 

Mountain  paths,  boundless  fields, 
O'er  l)illows  its  career  : 

This  is  the  power  it  yields. 


ELIZA   SCUDDER.  —  SARAH   F.    ADAMS. 


245 


To  sojourn  in  the  world,  and  yet  apart ; 
To  dwell  with  God,  yet  still  with  man 
to  feel ; 
To  hear  about  forever  in  the  heart 

The  gladness  which  His   spirit   doth 
reveal ; 
Not  to  deem  evil  gone 

From  every  earthly  scene  ; 
To  see  the  storm  come  on, 
But  feel  His  shield  between. 

It  giveth  not  a  strength  to  human  kind, 
To  leave  all  suffering  powerless  at  its 
feet. 
But  keeps  within  the  temple  of  the  mind 
A  golden  altar,  and  a  niercy-seat ; 
A  spiritual  ark, 

Bearing  the  peace  of  God 
Above  the  waters  dark. 
And  o'er  the  desert's  sod. 

How  beautiful  within  our  souls  to  keep 
This   treasure,  the  All-Merciful  hath 
given ; 
To  feel,  when  we  awake,  and   when   we 
sleep. 
Its  incense  round  us,  like  a  breeze  from 
heaven  ! 
Quiet  at  hearth  and  home, 

"Where  the  heart's  joys  begin ; 
Quiet  where'er  we  roam, 
Quiet  around,  within. 

Who  shall  make  trouble? — not  the  evil 
minds 
Which  like  a  shadow  o'er  creation  lower, 
The  spirit  peace  hath  so  attuned,  finds 
There    feelings    tliat    may    own    the 
Calmer's  power ; 
What  may  she  not  confer, 

E'en  where  she  must  condemn  ? 
They  take  not  peace  from  her, 
She  may  speak  peace  to  them ! 


ELIZA  SCUDDEE. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

THE  LOVE  OF  GOD. 

Thotj  Grace  Divine,  encircling  all, 
A  soundless,  shoreless  sea ! 

Wherein  at  last  our  souls  must  fall, 
0  Love  of  God  most  free  ! 


When  over  dizzy  heights  we  go, 
One  soft  hand  blinds  our  eyes, 

The  other  leads  us,  safe  and  slow, 
0  Love  of  God  most  wise  ! 

And  though  we  turn  us  from  thy  face, 

And  wander  wide  and  long. 
Thou  hold'st  ns  still  in  thine  embrace, 

0  Love  of  God  most  strong ! 

The  saddened  heart,  the  restless  soul, 
The  toil-worn  frame  and  mind, 

Alike  confess  thy  sweet  control, 
0  Love  of  God  most  kind  ! 

But  not  alone  thy  care  we  claim. 

Our  wayward  steps  to  win ; 
We  know  thee  by  a  dearer  name, 

0  Love  of  God  within  ! 

And  filled  and  quickened  by  thy  breath. 
Our  souls  are  strong  and  free 

To  rise  o'er  sin  and  fear  and  death, 
0  Love  of  God,  to  thee  ! 


SAEAH  F.  ADAMS. 

NEARER,  MY  GOD,   TO  THEE. 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Neai'cr  to  thee ! 
E'en  though  it  be  a  cross 

That  raiseth  me ; 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be, 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee. 

Nearer  to  thee ! 

Though  like  the  wanderer. 
The  sun  gone  down, 

Darkness  be  over  me. 
My  rest  a  stone ; 

Yet  in  my  dreams  I  'd  be 

Neai-er,  my  God,  to  thee. 
Nearer  to  thee ! 

There  let  the  way  appear 
Steps  unto  Heaven  ; 

All  that  thou  send'st  to  me 
In  mercy  given ; 

Angels  to  beckon  me 

Neax-er,  my  God,  to  thee. 
Nearer  to  thee ! 


246 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CEXTUPJES. 


Then  witli  my  waking  thoughts 
Bright  with  thy  jji-aise. 

Out  of  my  stony  griefs 
Betliel  I  '11  raise  ; 

So  by  my  woes  to  be 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee. 
Nearer  to  thee ! 

Or  if  on  joyful  wing 

Cleaving  the  sky, 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  forgot, 

Upwards  I  Hy, 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be. 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee ! 


ANNA  L.  WARING. 

MY  TIMES  ARE  IN  THY  HAND. 

Father,  I  know  that  all  my  life 

Is  portioned  out  for  me, 
And  the  changes  that  will  surely  come, 

1  do  not  fear  to  see  ; 
But  1  ask  thee  for  a  present  mind 

Intent  on  pleasing  thee. 

I  ask  thee  for  a  thoughtful  love. 
Through  constant  watching  wise, 

To  meet  the  glad  with  joyful  smiles, 
And  to  wipe  the  weeping  eyes  ; 

And  a  heart  at  leisure  from  itself, 
To  soothe  and  sympathize. 

I  would  not  have  the  restless  will 

That  hurries  to  and  fro. 
Seeking  for  some  great  thing  to  do. 

Or  secret  thing  to  know  ; 
I  would  be  treated  as  a  child, 

And  guided  where  I  go. 

Wherever  in  the  world  I  am, 

In  whatsoe'er  estate, 
I  have  a  fellowship  with  hearts 

To  keep  and  cultivate  ; 
And  a  work  of  lowly  love  to  do, 

For  the  Lord  on  whom  I  wait. 

So  I  ask  thee  for  the  daily  strength, 

To  none  that  ask  denied. 
And  a  mind  to  IjIcikI  with  outward  life, 

Wliilc;  keeping  at  thy  side, 
Content  to  till  a  little  space, 

If  thou  be  glorified. 


And  if  some  things  I  do  not  ask 

In  my  cup  of  blessing  be, 
I  would  have  my  spirit  filled  the  more 

With  grateful  love  to  thee  ; 
And  careful,  less  to  serve  thee  much, 

Than  to  please  thee  perfectly. 

There  are  briers  besetting  every  path. 
Which  call  for  patient  care  ; 

There  is  a  cross  in  every  lot. 

And  an  earnest  need  for  prayer  ; 

But  a  lowly  heart  that  leans  on  thee 
Is  happy  anywhere. 

In  a  service  which  thy  love  appoints, 

There  are  no  bonds  for  me  ; 
For  my  secret  heart  is  taught ' '  the  truth' 

That  makes  thy  children  "free"  ; 
And  a  life  of  self-renouncing  love 

Is  a  life  of  liberty. 


JAMES  FEEEMAN  CLAEKB. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

CAN  A. 

Dear   Friend  !   whose  presence  in   the 
house. 

Whose  gracious  word  benign. 
Could  once,  at  Cana's  wedding  feast. 

Change  water  into  wine  ; 

Come,  visit  us  !  and  when  dull  work 

Grows  weary,  line  on  line, 
Revive  our  souls,  and  let  us  see 

Life's  water  turned  to  wine. 

Gay  mirth  shall  deepen  into  joy. 
Earth's  hopes  grow  half  divine, 

When  Jesus  visits  us,  to  make 
Life's  water  glow  as  wine. 

The  social  talk,  the  evening  fire. 
The  homely  household  shrine, 

Grow  bright  with  angel  visits,  when 
The  Lord  pours  out  the  wine. 

For  when  self-seeking  turns  to  love, 
Not  knowing  mine  nor  thine. 

The  miracle  again  is  wrought, 
And  water  turned  to  wine. 


HORATIXIS  BONAE.  —  W.    ALEXANDER. 


247 


EORATIIIS  BONAE. 

THE  INNER  CALM. 

Calm  me,  my  God,  and  keep  me  calm, 
While  these  hot  breezes  blow  ; 

Be  like  the  night-dew's  cooling  bahn 
Upon  earth's  fevered  brow. 

Calm  me,  my  God,  and  keep  me  calm, 

Soft  resting  on  thy  breast  ; 
Soothe  me  with  holy  hymn  and  psalm, 

And  bid  my  spirit  rest. 

Calm  me,  my  God,  and  keep  me  calm  ; 

Let  thine  outstretched  wing 
Be  like  the  shade  of  Elim's  palm 

Beside  her  desert  spring. 

Yes,   keep   me  calm,  though  loud   and 
rude 

The  sounds  my  ear  that  greet, 
Calm  in  the  closet's  solitude, 

Calm  in  the  bustling  .street ; 

Calm  in  the  hour  of  buoyant  health, 

Calm  in  my  hour  of  pain, 
Calm  in  my  poverty  or  wealth, 

Calm  in  my  loss  or  gain  ; 

Calm  in  the  sufferance  of  WTong, 
Like  Him  who  bore  my  shame. 

Calm    mid    the    threatening,    taunting 
throng, 
Who  hate  Thy  holy  name  ; 

Calm  when  the  great  world's  news  with 
power 

My  listening  spirit  stir  ; 
Let  not  the  tidings  of  the  hour 

E'er  find  too  fond  an  ear  ; 

Calm  as  the  ray  of  sun  or  star 
Which  storms  assail  in  vain. 

Moving  unruffled  through  earth's  war. 
The  eternal  calm  to  gain. 


THE  MASTER'S  TOUCH. 

In  the  still  air  the  music  lies  unheard  ; 
In   the    rough   marble    beauty   hides 
unseen  : 
To   make   the   music   and   the    beauty, 
needs 
The    master's    touch,    the    sculptor's 
chisel  keen. 


Great  Master,  touch  us  with  thy  skilful 
hand  ; 
Let  not  the  music  that  is  in  us  die  ! 
Great  Sculptor,  hew  and  polish  us  ;  nor 
let, 
Hidden  and  lost,  thy  form  within  us 
lie! 

Spare  not  the   stroke  !  do   with  us  as 
thou  wilt  ! 
Let  there  be  naught  unfinished,  broken, 
marred  ; 
Complete  thy  purpose,  that  we  may  be- 
come 
Thy  perfect  image,  thou  our  God  and 
Lord! 


W.  ALEXANDER. 

UP  ABOVE. 

Down  below,  the  wild  November  whist- 
ling 
Through  the  beech's  dome  of  burning  red, 
And  the  Autumn  sprinkling  penitential 
Dust  and  ashes  on  the  chestnut's  head. 

Down  below,  a  pall  of  airy  purple 
Darkly  hanging  from  the  mountain-side ; 
And  the  sunset  from  his  eyebrow  staling 
O'er  the  long  roll  of  the  leaden  tide. 

Up  above,  the  tree  with  leaf  unfading, 
By  the  everlasting  river's  brink  ; 
And  the  sea  of  glass,  beyond  whose  margin 
Never  yet  the  sun  was  known  to  sink. 

Down  below,  the  white  wings  of  the  sea- 
bird 

Dashed  across  the  furrows,  dark  with 
mould. 

Flitting,  like  the  memories  of  our  child- 
hood. 

Through  the  trees,  now  waxen  pale  and 
old. 

Down  below,  imaginations  quivering 
Through  our  human  spirits  like  the  wind; 
Thoughts  that  toss,  like  leaves  about  the 

woodland ; 
Hope,  like  sea-birds,  flashed  across  the 

mind. 


248 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTUEIES. 


Up  above,  the  host  no  man  can  number, 
In  white  robes,  a  palm  in  every  hand. 
Each  some  work  sublime  forever  working, 
In  the  spacious  tracts  of  that  great  land. 

ITp  above,  the  thoughts  that  know  not 

anguish ; 
Tender  care,  sweet  love  for  us  below ; 
Noble  pity,  free  from  anxious  terror ; 
Larger  love,  without  a  touch  of  woe. 

Down  below,  a  sad,  mysterious  music 
Wailing  through  the  woods  and  on  the 

shore, 
Burdened  with  a  grand  majestic  secret, 
That  keeps  sweeping  from  us  evermore. 

Up  above,  a  music  that  entwineth 
With  eternal  threads  of  golden  sound. 
The  great  poem  of  this  strange  existence. 
All  whose  wondrous  meaning  hath  been 
found. 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

THE  OTHER  WORLD. 

It  lies  around  us  like  a  cloud,  — 

A  world  we  do  not  see  ; 
Yet  the  sweet  closing  of  an  eye 

May  bring  us  there  to  be. 

Its  gentle  breezes  fan  our  cheek ; 

Amid  our  worldly  cares 
Its  gentle  voices  whisper  love. 

And  mingle  with  our  prayers. 

Sweet  hearts  around  us  throb  and  beat, 
Sweet  helping  hands  are  stirred, 

And  palpitates  the  veil  between 
With  breathings  almost  heard. 

The  silence  —  awful,  sweet,  and  calm  — 
They  have  no  power  to  break  ; 

For  mortal  words  are  not  for  them 
To  utter  or  partake. 

So  thin,  so  soft,  so  sweet  they  glide, 
So  near  to  press  they  seem,  — 

They  seem  to  lull  us  to  our  rest. 
And  melt  into  our  dream. 


And  in  the  hush  of  rest  they  bring 

'T  is  easy  now  to  see 
How  lovely  and  how  sweet  a  pass 

The  hour  of  death  may  be. 

To  close  the  eye,  and  close  the  ear, 
Wrapped  in  a  trance  of  bliss. 

And  gently  dream  in  loving  arms 
To  swoon  to  that — from  this. 

Scarce  knowing  if  we  wake  or  sleep, 
Scarce  asking  where  we  are. 

To  feel  all  evil  sink  away. 
All  sorrow  and  all  care. 

Sweet  souls  around  us  !  watch  us  still. 

Press  nearer  to  our  side. 
Into  our  thoughts,  into  our  prayers. 

With  gentle  helpings  glide. 

Let  death  between  us  be  as  naught, 
A  dried  and  vanished  stream ; 

Your  joy  be  the  reality. 

Our  suffering  life  the  dream. 


MRS.  LEWES  (GEORGE  ELIOT). 


O  MAY  I  JOIN  THE  CHOIR  INVISIBLE  I 

0  MAY  I  join  the  choir  invisible 

Of  those  immortal  dead  wlio  live  again 

In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence ; 

live 
In  pulses  stirred  to  generosity. 
In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn 
Of  miserable  aims  that  end  with  self. 
In   thoughts    sublime    that   pierce   the 

night  like  stars. 
And   with   their  mild  persistence  urge 

men's  minds 
To  vaster  issues. 

So  to  live  is  heaven  : 
To  make  undying  music  in  the  world. 
Breathing  a  "beauteous  order,  that  con- 
trols 
With  growing  sway  the  growing  life  of 

mau. 
So  we  inherit  that  sweet  purity 
For   wliich    we    struggled,    failed,   and 

agonized 
With  widening  retrospect  that  bred  de- 

sjtair. 
Eebellinus  tlesh  that  would  not  be  sub- 
dued, 


CHAELES   KINGSLEY. 


249 


A  vicious  parent  shaming  still  its  child. 
Poor   anxious    penitence,   is    qnick    dis- 
solved ; 
Its  discords  quenched  by  meeting  har- 
monies, 
Die  in  the  large  and  charitable  air. 
And  all  our  rarer,  better,  truer  self, 
That  sobbed  religiously  in  yearning  song, 
That  watched  to  ease  the  burden  of  the 

world. 
Laboriously  tracing  what  must  be. 
And  what  may  yet  be  better,  — saw  within 
A  worthier  image  for  the  sanctuary. 
And  shaped  it  forth  before  the  multitude, 
Divinely  human,  raising  worship  so 
To  higher  reverence   more  mixed   with 

love,  — 
That  better  self  shall  live  till   human 

Time 
Shall  fold  its  eyelids,  and  the  human  sky 
Be  gathered  like  a  scroll  within  the  tomb. 
Unread  forever. 

This  is  life  to  come, 
Which  martyred  men  have  made  more 

glorious 
For  us,  who  strive  to  follow. 

May  I  reach 
That  purest  heaven, — be  to  other  souls 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony, 
Enkindle  generous  ardor,  feed  pure  love. 
Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty. 
Be  the  sweet  presence  of  a  good  diffused. 
And  in  diffusion  ever  more  intense  ! 
So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible, 
"Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world. 


CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 

[1819-1874.] 

THE  THREE  FISHERS. 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the 
west. 
Out  into  the  west  as  the  sunwentdown  ; 
Each  thought  on  the  woman  who  loved 
him  the  best, 
And  the  children  stood  watching  them 
out  of  the  town  ; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must 

weep, 
And  there 's  little  to  earn,  and  many  to 
keep, 
Though  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 


Three  wives  sat   up   in   the   lighthouse 
tower. 
And  they  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the 
sun  went  down, 
They  looked   at   the   squall,   and   they 
looked  at  the  shower, 
And  the  night  rack  came  rolling  up 
ragged  and  brown ! 
But  men  must  work,  and  women  must 

weep. 
Though  storms  be  sudden,  and   waters 
deep. 
And  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  corpses  layout  on  the  shining  sands 
In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went 
down. 
And  the  women  are  weeping  and  Avring- 
ing  their  hands 
For  those  who  will  never  come  back 
to  the  town ; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must 

weep. 
And  the  sooner  it 's  over,  the  sooner  to 
sleep,  — 
And  good  by  to  the  bar  and  its 
moaning. 


THE  SANDS  OF  DEE. 

"0  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home. 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee"  ; 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  wi' 
foam. 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  western  tide  crept  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand. 
And  round  and  round  the  sand. 
As  far  as  eye  could  see. 
The  rolling  mist  came  do^vn  and  hid  the 
land,  — 
And  never  home  came  she. 

"  0,  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair,  — ■ 
A  tress  o'  golden  hair, 
A  drowned  maiden's  hair 
Above  the  nets  at  sea  ? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee." 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam, 
The  cruel  crawling  foam, 


250 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


The  cruel  hungry  foam, 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea : 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the 
cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee ! 


A  MYTH. 

A  FLOATING,  a  floating 
Across  the  sleeping  sea, 
All  night  1  heard  a  singing  bird 
Upon  the  topmast  tree. 

"0,  came  you  from  the  isles  of  Greece, 
Or  from  the  banks  of  Seine, 
Or  ofi'  some  tree  in  forests  free. 
Which  fringe  the  Western  main?" 

"I  came  not  off  the  old  world, — 
Nor  yet  from  olf  the  new,  — 
But  I  am  one  of  the  birds  of  God 
Which  sing  the  whole  night  through." 

"0  sing  and  wake  the  dawning, 
0  whistle  for  the  wind ; 
The  night  is  long,  the  current  strong, 
My  boat  it  lags  behind." 

"  The  current  sweeps  the  old  world. 
The  current  sweeps  the  new ; 
The  wind  will  blow,  the  dawn  will  glow 
Ere  thou  hast  sailed  them  through." 


DINAH  MULOCK  CEAIK. 

COMING  HOME. 

The  lift  is  high  and  blue, 

And  the  new  moon  glints  through 

The  bonnie  corn-stooks  o'  Strathairly ; 
My  ship  's  in  Largo  Bay, 
And  I  ken  it  wee!,- — the  way 

Up  the  steep,  steep  brae  of  Strathairly. 

When  1  sailed  ower  the  sea,  — 
A  laddie  bold  and  free,  — 

The  corn  sprang  green  on  Strathairly ; 
When  1  come  back  again, 
'T  is  an  auld  man  walks  his  lane. 

Slow    and    sad    through    the   fields   o' 
Strathairly. 


Of  the  sheai-ers  that  I  see. 

Ne'er  a  body  kens  me. 
Though  1  kent  them  a'  at  Strathairly ; 

And  this  tisher-wife  I  pass. 

Can  she  be  the  braw  lass 
That  I  kissed  at  the  back  of  Strathairly  ? 

0,  the  land 's  fine,  fine ! 

I  could  buy  it  a'  for  mine. 
My  gowd  's    yellow    as    the  stooks   o' 
Strathairly ; 

But  1  fain  yon  lad  wad  be. 

That  sailed  ower  the  salt  sea. 
As  the  dawn  rose  gray  on  Strathairly. 


TOO  LATE. 

Could   ye   come  back  to  me,  Douglas, 
Douglas, 

In  the  old  likeness  that  I  knew, 
I  would  be  so  faithful,  so  loving,  Douglas, 

Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Never  a  scornful  word  should  grieve  ye, 
I  'd  smile  on  ye  sweet  as  the  angels 
do;  — 

Sweet  as  your  smile  on  me  shone  ever, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

0  to  call  back  the  days  that  are  not ! 
My  eyes  were  blinded,  your  words  were 

few : 
Do  you  know  the  truth  now  up  in  heaven, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true  ? 

1  never  was  worthy  of  you,  Douglas ; 

Not  half  worthy  the  like  of  you  : 
Now  all  men    beside   seem  to   me   like 
shadows,  — 
I  love  you,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Stretch  out  your  hand  to  me,  Douglas, 
Douglas, 
Drop  forgiveness  from  heaven  like  dew ; 
As  I  lay  my  heart  on  your  dead  heart, 
Douglas, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 


OUTWARD   BOUND. 

Out  upon  the  unknown  deep, 

Where  the  unheard  oceans  sound. 
Where  the  unseen  islands  sleep,  — 
Outward  bound. 


HAKEIET   WINSLOW   SEW  ALL. 


251 


Following  towards  tlie  silent  west 
O'er  tlie  horizon's  curved  rim, 

On,  to  islands  of  the  blest ; 
He  with  me  and  I  with  him, 
Outward  bound. 

Nothing  but  a  speck  we  seem 

In  the  waste  of  waters  round; 
Floating,  floating  like  a  dream, 

Outward  bound. 
But  within  that  tiny  speck 

Two  brave  hearts  with  one  accord, 
Past  all  tumult,  pain,  and  wreck, 
Look  up  calm,  and  praise  the  Lord, 
Outward  bound. 


ELIZABETH  A.  ALLEN. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

UNTIL  DEATH. 

Make  me  no  vows   of  constancy,  dear 
friend, 
To  love  me,  though  I  die,  thy  whole 
life  long. 
And  love  no  other  till  thy  days  shall 
end, — 
Nay,  it  were  rash  and  wrong. 

If  thou  canst  love  another,  be  it  so ; 

I  would  not  reach  out  of  my  quiet  grave 
To  bind  thy  heart,  if  it  should  choose  to 
go;  — 
Love  should  not  be  a  slave. 

My  placid  ghost,  I  trust,  will  walk  serene 
In  clearer  light  than  gilds  those  earthly 
morns, 
Above  the  jealousies  and  envies  keen 

Which  sow  this  life  with  thorns. 

Thou  wouldst  not  feel  my  shadowy  caress. 
If,  after  death,  my  soul  should  linger 
here; 
Men's  hearts   crave   tangible,  close  ten- 
derness. 
Love's  presence,  warm  and  near. 

It  would  not  make  me  sleep  more  peace- 
fully 
That  thou  wert  wasting  all  thy  life  in 
woe 
For  my  poor  sake ;  what  love  thou  hast 
for  me, 
Bestow  it  ere  I  go  ! 


Carve  not  upon  a  stone  when  I  am  dead 
The  praises  which  remorseful  mourners 
give 
To   women's   graves,  —  a   tardy   recom- 
pense, — 
But  speak  them  while  I  live. 

Heap  not  the  heavy  marble  on  my  head 
Tosliutaway  the  sunshine  and  the  dew ; 
Let  small    blooms   grow   there,  and   let 
grasses  wave. 
And  rain-drops  filter  through. 

Thou  wilt  meet  many  fairer  and  more  gay 
Than  I ;  but,  trust  me,  thou  canst  never 
find 
One  who  will  love  and  serve  thee  night 
and  day 
With  a  more  single  mind. 

Forget  me  when  I  die  !     The  violets 

Above  my  rest  will  blossom  just  as  blue, 
Nor  miss  thy  tears;   e'en  Nature's  self 
forgets ;  — 
But  while  I  live,  be  true ! 


HAREIET  WINSLOW  SEWALL. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

WHY  THTJS  LONGING? 

Why  thus  longing,  thus  forever  sighing 
For  the  far  oft",  unattained,  and  dim. 

While  the  beautiful,  all  round  thee  lying, 
Offers  up  its  low  perpetual  hymn  ! 

Wouldst  thou  listen  to  its  gentle  teaching 
All    thy  restless   yearnings  it  would 
still. 
Leaf  and  flower  and  laden  bee  are  preach- 
.  ing 
Thine   own   sphere,   though  humble, 
first  to  fiU. 

Poor  indeed  thou  must  be,  if  around  thee 
Thou  no  ray  of  light  and  joy  canst 
throw. 
If  no  silken  chord  of  love  hath  bound 
thee 
To   some  little  world   through  weal 
and  woe ; 

If  no  dear  e3'es  thy  fond  love  can  brighten, 
No  fond  voices  answer  to  thine  own. 


252 


SONGS   OF   THKEE    CENTURIES. 


If  no  brother's  sorrow  thou  canst  lighten 
By  daily  syuiputliy  and  gentle  tone. 

Not  by  deeds  that  gain  the  world's  ap- 
plauses, 
Not  by  works  that  win   thee   world 
renown, 
Not  by  martyrdom  or  vaunted  crosses. 
Canst  thou  win  and  wear  the  immor- 
tal crown. 

Daily  struggling,   though  unloved  and 
lonely, 
Every  day  a  rich  reward  will  give  ; 
Thou  wilt  lind  by  hearty  striving  only, 
And   truly   loving,    thou  canst  truly 
live. 

Dost  thou  revel  in  the  rosy  morning 

When  all  nature  hails  the  Lord  of  light, 
And  his  smile,  nor  low  nor  lofty  scorn- 
ing. 
Gladdens    hall    and   hovel,    vale  and 
height  ? 

Other  hands  may  grasp  the  field   and 
forest. 
Proud  proprietors  in  pomp  may  shine, 
But  with  fervent  love  if  thou  adorest. 
Thou  art  wealthier,  —  all  the  world  is 
thine. 

Yet   if   through   earth's   wide    domains 
thou  rovest. 
Sighing  tliat  they  are  not  thine  alone, 
Not  those  fair  fields,  but  thyself  thou 
lovest. 
And  their  beauty  and  thy  wealth  are 
gone. 


COVENTRY  PATMORE. 

WOMAN. 

All  powers  of  the  sea  and  air, 

All  interests  of  hill  and  plain, 
I  so  can  sing,  in  seasons  fair, 

That  who  hath  felt  may  feel  again  : 
Nay,  more  ;  the  gracious  muses  bless 

At  times  my  tongue,  until  I  can 
With  moving  emphasis  express 

The  likeness  of  the  perfect  man  : 
Elated  oft  with  such  free  songs, 

I  think  with  utterance  free  to  raise 


That  hymn  for  which  the  whole  world 

longs,  — • 

A  worthy  hymn  in  woman's  praise; 
The  best  half  of  creation's  best, 

Its  heart  to  feel,  its  eye  to  see. 
The  crown  and  complex  of  the  rest, 

Its  aim  and  its  epitome. 

Yet  now  it  is  my  chosen  task 

To  sing  her  worth  as  maid  and  wife; 
And  were  such  post  to  seek,  I  'd  ask 

To  live  her  laureate  all  my  life. 
On  wings  of  love  uplifted  free, 

And  by  her  gentleness  made  great, 
I  'd  teach  how  noble  man  should  be, 

To  match  with  such  a  lovely  mate ; 
Until  (for  who  may  hope  too  much 

From  her  who  wields  the  powers  of  love), 
Our  lifted  lives  at  last  should  touch 

That  lofty  goal  to  which  they  move; 
Until  we  find,  as  darkness  rolls 

Far  olf,  and  fleshly  mists  dissolve, 
That  nuptial  contrasts  are  the  poles 

On  which  the  heavenly  spheres  revolve. 


THE  CHASE. 

She  wearies  with  an  ill  unknown  ; 

In  sleep  she  sobs  and  seems  to  float, 
A  water-lil)%  all  alone 

Within  a  lonely  castle-moat ; 
And  as  the  full  moon,  spectral,  lies 

Within  the  crescent's  gleaming  arms, 
The  present  shows  her  heedless  eyes 

A  future  dim  with  vague  alarms : 
She  sees,  and  yet  she  scarcely  sees ; 

For,  life-in-life  not  yet  begun. 
Too  many  are  life's  mysteries 

For  thought  to  fix  t'ward  any  one. 

She  's  told  that  maidens  are  by  youths 

Extremely  honoi'ed  and  desirisd  ; 
And  sighs,  "If  those  sweet  talcs  be  truths, 

What  bliss  to  be  so  much  admired  I " 
The  suitors  come ;  she  sees  them  grieve ; 

Her  coldness  fills  them  with  despair: 
She  'd  pity  if  she  could  believe ; 

She  's  Sony  that  she  cannot  care. 

Who  's  this  that  meets  her  on  her  way  ? 

Comes  he  as  enemy,  or  friend  ; 
Or  both  ?     Her  bosom  seems  to  say 

He  cannot  pass,  and  there  an  end. 
Whom  does  he  love?     Does  he  confer 

His  heart  on  worth  that  answers  his  ? 


LETITIA   E.    LANDON. 


Perhaps  he 's  come  to  worship  her : 
She  t'eai's,  she  hopes,  she  thinks  he  is. 

Advancing  stepless,  quick,  and  still, 

As  in  the  grass  a  serpent  glides. 
He  fascinates  her  fluttering  will, 

Then  teriifies  with  dreadful  strides : 
At  tirst,  there  's  nothing  to  resist : 

He  fights  with  all  the  forms  of  peace ; 
He  comes  about  her  like  a  mist, 

With  subtle,  swift,  unseen  increase ; 
And  then,  unlooked  for,  strikes  amain 

Some  stroke  that  frightens  hertodeath ; 
And  grows  all  harmlessness  again. 

Ere  she  can  cry,  or  get  her  breath. 
At  times  she  stops,  and  stands  at  bay ; 

But  he,  in  all  more  strong  than  she, 
Subdues  her  with  his  }>ale  dismay, 

Or  more  admired  audacity. 

All  people  speak  of  him  with  praise  : 

How  wise  his  talk  ;  how  sweet  his  tone ; 
What  manly  worship  in  his  gaze  ! 

It  nearly  makes  her  heart  his  own. 
With  what  an  air  he  speaks  her  name  : 

His  manner  always  recollects 
Her  sex  :  and  still  the  woman's  claim 

Is  taught  its  scope  by  his  respects. 
Her  ch.arms,  perceived  to  prosper  first 

In  his  beloved  advertencies. 
When  in  her  glass  they  are  rehearsed, 

Prove  his  most  powerful  allies. 

Ah,  whither  shall  a  maiden  flee. 

When  a  bold  youth  so  swift  pursires. 
And  siege  of  tenderest  courtesy, 

With  hope  perseverant,  still  renews  ! 
W^hy  fly  so  fast  ?     Her  flattered  breast 

Thanks  him  who  finds  herfair  andgood  ; 
She  loves  her  fears ;  veiled  joys  arrest 

The  foolish  terrors  of  her  blood ; 
By  secret,  sweet  degrees,  her  heart. 

Vanquished,  takes  warmth   from   his 
desire : 
She  makes  it  more,  with  bashful  art, 

And  fuels  love's  late  dreaded  fire. 

Tlie  gallant  credit  he  accords 

To  all  the  signs  of  good  in  her, 
Eedeems  itself;  his  praiseful  words 

What  they  attribute  still  confer. 
Her  heart  is  thrice  as  rich  in  bliss, 

She 's  three  times  gentler  than  before  : 
He  gains  a  right  to  call  her  his. 

Now  she  through  him  is  so  much  more ! 
Ah,  might  he,  when  by  doubts  aggrieved. 

Behold  his  tokens  next  her  breast, 


At  all  his  words  and  sighs  perceived 
Against  its  lilithe  uplieaval  pressed. 

But  still  she  flies :  should  she  be  won, 
It  must  not  be  believed  or  thouglit 

Sheyields :  she's  chased  to  death,  undone, 
Surprised,  and  violently  caught. 


THE  LOVER. 

He  meets,  by  heavenly  chance  expfess. 

His  destined  wife ;  some  hidden  hand 
Unveils  to  him  that  loveliness 

Which  others  cannot  understand. 
No  songs  of  love,  no  summer  dreams 

Did  e'er  his  longing  fancy  fire 
With  vision  like  to  this;  she  seems 

In  all  things  better  than  desire. 
His  merits  in  her  presence  grow. 

To  match  the  promise  in  her  eyes, 
And  round  her  happy  footsteps  blow 

The  authentic  airs  of  Paradise. 

The  least  is  well,  yet  nothing'  s  light 

In  all  the  lover  does ;  for  he 
Who  pitches  hope  at  such  a  height 

Will  do  all  things  with  dignity. 
She  is  so  perfect,  true,  and  pure. 

Her  virtue  all  virtue  so  endears, 
That  often,  when  he  thinks  of  her. 

Life's  meanness  fills  his  eyes  with  tears. 


LETITIA  E.  LANDON. 

THE  SHEPHERD-BOY. 

Like  some  vision  olden 

Of  far  other  time. 
When  the  age  was  golden, 

In  the  young  world's  prime 
Is  thy  soft  pipe  linging, 

O  lonely  shepherd-boy, 
W^hat  song  art  thou  singing, 

In  thy  youth  and  joy  ? 

Or  art  thou  complaining 

Of  thy  lowly  lot. 
And  thine  own  disdaining. 

Dost  ask  what  thou  hast  not  ? 
Of  the  future  dreaming. 

Weary  of  the  past, 
For  the  present  scheming, 

All  but  what  thou  hast. 


254 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


No,  thou  art  delighting 

In  thy  summer  home, 
Where  the  flowers  inviting 

Tempt  the  bee  to  roam ; 
Where  the  cowsUp  bending 

AVith  its  golden  bells, 
Of  each  glad  hour's  ending 

With  a  sweet  chime  tells. 

All  wild  creatures  love  him 

When  he  is  alone, 
Every  bird  above  hiiu 

Sings  its  softest  tone. 
Thankful  to  high  Heaven, 

Humble  in  thy  joy, 
Much  to  thee  is  given, 

Lowly  shepherd-boy. 


DEATH  AND  THE  YOUTH. 

"Nor  yet,  the  flowers  are  in  my  path, 

The  sun  is  in  the  sky ; 
Not  yet,  my  heart  is  full  of  hope, 

I  cannot  bear  to  die. 

"Not  yet,  I  never  knew  till  now 
How  precious  life  could  be ; 

My  heart  is  full  of  love,  0  Death ! 
I  cannot  come  with  thee  !" 

But  Love  and  Hope,  enchanted  twain. 
Passed  in  their  falsehood  by  ; 

Death  came  again,  and  then  he  said, 
"  I  'm  ready  now  to  die !" 


AUBREY  DE  VERE. 

THE  SISTERS. 

"  I  KNOW  not  how  to  comfort  thee ; 

Yet  dare  not  say.  Weep  on  ! 
I  know  how  little  life  is  worth 

When  love  itself  is  gone. 

"The  mighty  with  the  weak  contend; 

The  many  with  the  few  : 
The  hard  and  heavy  hearts  oppress 

The  tender  and  the  true. 

"Had  he  been  capable  of  love. 
His  love  had  clung  to  thee ; 


He  was  too  weak  a  thing  to  bear 
That  noble  energy. 

"Lift,  lift  your  forehead  from  my  lap. 

And  lay  it  on  my  breast : 
I  too  have  wept ;  but  you  I  deemed 

Still  safe  within  your  nest." 

Her  words  were  vain,  but  not  her  tears ; 

The  mourner  raised  her  eyes, 
Subdued  by  the  atoning  power 

Of  pitying  sympathies : 

Subdued  at  first,  erelong  consoled, 

At  last  she  ceased  to  moan  ; 
For  those  who  feel  another's  pain 

Will  soon  forget  their  own. 

0  ye  whom  broken  vows  bereave, 
Your  vows  to  heaven  restore  ; 

0  ye  for  blighted  love  who  grieve, 
Love  deeper  and  love  more  ! 

The  arrow  cannot  wound  the  air, 

Nor  thunder  rend  the  sea, 
Nor  injury  long  afflict  the  heart 

That  rests,  0  Love,  in  thee  ! 

The  winds  mayblow,  the  waves  mayswell; 

But  soon  those  tumults  cease, 
And  the  pure  element  subsides 

Into  its  native  peace. 


ALICE  CAREY. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

KHUMLEY. 

0  BLUSHING  flowers  of  Krumley ! 
'T  is  she  who  makes  you  sweet. 

1  envy  every  silver  wave 
That  laughs  about  her  feet. 

How  dare  the  waves,  how  dare  the  flowers, 
Rise  up  and  kiss  her  feet  ? 

Ye  wanton  woods  of  Krumley ! 

Ye  clasp  her  with  your  boughs. 
And  stoo]i  to  kiss  her  all  the  way 

Beside  her  homeward  cows. 
I  hate  ye,  woods  of  Krumley, 

I  'm  jealous  of  your  boughs  1 


ALICE   CAREY. 


255 


I  tell  ye,  banks  of  Knimley, 

'T  is  not  your  sunny  days 
That  set  your  meadows  up  and  down 

"With  blossoms  all  ablaze. 
The  flowers  that  love  her  crowd  to  bloom 

Along  her  trodden  ways. 

0  dim  and  dewy  Krumley, 

'T  is  not  your  birds  at  all 
That  make  the  air  one  warble 

From  rainy  spring  to  fall. 
They  only  mock  the  sweeter  songs 

That  from  her  sweet  lips  fall. 

0  bold,  bold  winds  of  Krumley, 
Do  ye  mean  my  heart  to  break, 

So  light  ye  lilt  her  yellow  hair. 
So  lightly  kiss  her  cheek  ? 

0  flower  and  bird,  0  wave  and  wind, 
Ye  mean  my  heart  to  break  ! 


THE  SURE  WITNESS. 

The  solemn  wood  had  spread 
Shadows  around  my  head,  — ■ 
"Curtains  they  are,"  I  said, 
"Hung  dim  and  still  about  the  house  of 

prayer" ; 
Softly  among  the  limbs, 
Turning  the  leaves  of  hymns, 
I  hear  the  winds,  and  ask  if  God  were 

there. 
No  voice  replied,  but  while  I  listening 

stood. 
Sweet  peace  made  holy  hushes  through 

the  wood. 

With  ruddy,  open  hand, 

I  saw  the  wild  rose  stand 

Beside  the  green  gate  of  the  summer  hills, 

And  pulling  at  her  dress, 

I  cried,  "Sweet  hermitess. 

Hast  thou  beheld  Him  who  the  dew  dis- 
tils?" 

No  voice  replied,  but  while  I  listening 
bent, 

Her  gracious  beauty  made  my  heart  con- 
tent. 

The  moon  in  splendor  shone,  — 
"She  walketh  Heaven  alone. 
And  seeth  all  things,"  to  myself  I  mused; 
"Hast  thou  beheld  Him,  then. 
Who  hides  himself  from  men 
In  that  great  power  through  nature  in- 
terfused?" 


No  speech  made  answer,  and  no  sign  ap- 
peared, 

But  in  the  silence  I  was  soothed  and 
cheered. 

Waking  one  time,  strange  awe 

Thrilling  my  soul,  I  saw 

A  kingly  splendor  round  about  the  night ; 

Such  cunning  work  the  hand 

Of  spinner  never  planned,  — 

The  finest  wool  maj'  not  be  washed  so 

white. 
"Hast  thou  come  out  of  Heaven  ?" 
I  asked  ;  and  lo  ! 
The  snow  was  all  the  answer  of  the  snow. 

Then  my  heart  said.  Give  o'er; 

Question  no  more,  no  more ! 

The  wind,  the  snow-storm,  the  wild  her- 
mit flower. 

The  illuminated  air, 

The  pleasure  after  praj'er, 

Proclaim  the  unoriginated  Power ! 

The  mystery  that  hides  him  here  and 
there. 

Bears  the  sure  witness  he  is  everywhere. 


HER  LAST  POEM. 

Earth  with  its  dark  and  dreadful  ills, 

Recedes  and  fades  away ; 
Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  heavenly  hills ; 

Ye  gates  of  death,  give  way  ! 

My  soul  is  full  of  whispered  song,  — 
My  blindness  is  my  sight ; 

The  shadows  that  I  feared  so  long 
Are  full  of  life  and  light. 

My  pulses  faint  and  fainter  beat. 
My  faith  takes  wider  bounds ; 

I  feel  grow  firm  beneath  my  feet 
The  green,  immortal  grounds. 

The  faith  to  me  a  courage  gives. 

Low  as  the  grave  to  go,  — 
I  know  that  my  Redeemer  lives, — 

That  I  shall  live  I  know. 

The  palace  walls  I  almost  see 
Where  dwells  my  Lord  and  King, 

0  grave,  where  is  thy  victory  ? 
0  death,  where  is  thy  sting? 


256 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


PHEBE  CAREY. 

[U.   S.   A.] 

FIELD  PREACHING. 

I  HAVE  been  out  to-day  in  field  and  wood, 
Listening  to  praises  sweet  and  counsel  good 
Such  as  a  little  child  had  understood, 

That,  in  its  tender  youth. 
Discerns  the  simple  eloquence  of  truth. 

The  modest  blossoms,  crowding  round 

my  way. 
Though  they  had  nothing  great  or  grand 

to  say. 
Gave  out  their  fragrance  to  the  wind  all 

day; 
Because  His  loving  breath, 
"With  soft  persistence,  won  them  back 

from  death. 

And  the  right  royal  lily,  putting  on 
Her  robes,  more  rich  than  those  of  Solo- 
mon, 
Opened  her  gorgeous  missal  in  the  sun. 
And  thanked  Him,  soft  and  low. 
Whose  gracious,  liberal  hand  had  clothed 
her  so. 

When  wearied,  on  the  meadow-grass  I 

sank ; 
So  narrow  was  the  rill  from  which  I  drank. 
An  infant  might  have  stepped  from  bank 
to  bank ; 
And  the  tall  rushes  near 
Lapping  together,  hid  its  waters  clear. 

Yet  to  the  ocean  joyously  it  went ; 
And  rippling  in  the  fulness  of  content. 
Watered  the  pretty  flowers  that  o'er  it 

leant ; 
For  all  the  banks  were  spread 
With  delicate  flowers  that  on  its  bounty 

fed. 

The  stately  maize,  a  fair  and  goodly  sight. 
With  serried  spear-points  bristling  sharj) 

and  bright. 
Shook  out  his  yellow  tresses,  for  delight, 

To  all  tluiir  tawny  length. 
Like    Samson,    glorying    in    his    lusty 
strength. 

And  every  little  bird  upon  the  tree. 
Ruffling  iiis  plumage  bright,  for  ecstasy, 


Sang  in  the  wild  insanity  of  glee ; 

And  seemed,  in  the  same  lays. 
Calling  his  mate  and  uttering  songs  of 
praise. 

The  golden  grasshopper  did  chirp  and  sing ; 
The  plain  bee,  busy  with  her  housekeep- 
ing, 
Kept  humming  cheerfully  upon  the  wing. 

As  if  she  understood 
That,  with  contentment,  labor  was  a  good. 

I  saw  each  creature,  in  his  own  best  place, 
To  the  Creator  lift  a  smiling  face. 
Praising  continually  his  wondz'ous  grace ; 

As  if  the  best  of  all 
Life's  countless  blessings  was  to  live  at  all ! 

So  with  a  book  of  sermons,  plain  and  true, 
Hid  in  my  heart,  where  I  might  turn 

them  through, 
I  went  home  softly,  through  the  falling 

dew. 
Still  listening,  rapt  and  calm, 
To  Nature  giving  out  her  evening  psalm. 

AVhile,  far  along  the  west,  mine  eyes  dis- 
cerned. 

Where,  lit  by  God,  the  fires  of  sunset 
burned. 

The  tree-tops,  unconsumed,  to  flame  were 
turned ; 
And  1,  in  that  great  hush. 

Talked  with  His  angels  in  each  burning 
bush ! 


NEARER  HOME. 

One  sweetly  welcome  thought, 
Comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er ; 

I  'm  nearer  home  to-day 
Than  I  've  ever  been  before ; 

Nearer  my  Father's  house 

Where  the  many  mansions  be ; 

Nearer  the  Great  White  Throne, 
Nearer  the  Jasper  Sea ; 

Nearer  that  bound  of  life, 

AVhere  we  lay  our  burdens  down,  — 
Nearer  leaving  the  cross. 

Nearer  gaining  the  crown. 

But  lying  dimly  between, 

Winding  down  through  the  night. 
Lies  the  dark  and  uncertain  stream 

That  leads  us  at  length  to  the  light. 


SYDNEY  DOBELL. 


257 


Closer  and  closer  my  steps 

Come  to  the  dark  abysm, 
Closer  Death  to  ray  lips 

Presses  the  awful  chrism ; 

Father,  perfect  my  trust ! 

Strengthen  my  feeble  faith  ! 
Let  me  feel  as  1  shall,  when  I  stand 

On  the  shores  of  the  river  of  death :  — 

Feel  as  I  would,  were  my  feet 

Even  now  slipping  over  the  brink, — 
For  it  may  be  1  am  nearer  home, 

Nearer  now,  than  I  think  ! 


PEACE. 

0  Land,  of  every  land  the  best,  — 
0  Land,  whose  glory  shall  increase ; 

Now  in  your  whitest  raiment  drest 
For  the  great  festival  of  peace  : 

Take  from  your  flag  its  fold  of  gloom. 
And  let  it  float  undimmed  above. 

Till  over  all  our  vales  shall  bloom 
The  sacred  colors  that  we  love. 

On  mountain  high,  in  A^allej^  low. 
Set  Freedom's  living  fires  to  burn; 

Until  the  midnight  sky  shall  show 
A  redder  glory  than  the  morn. 

Welcome,  with  shouts  of  joy  and  pride. 
Your  veterans    from    the   war-path's 
track ; 

You  gave  your  boys,  untrained,  untried ; 
Y'ou  bring  them  men  and  heroes  back  ! 

And  shed  no  tear,  though  think  you  must 
AVith  sorrow  of  the  martyred  band; 

Not  even  for  him  whose  hallowed  dust 
Has  made  our  prairies  holy  land. 

Though  by  the  places  where  they  fell. 
The  places  that  are  sacred  ground. 

Death,  like  a  sullen  sentinel, 
Paces  his  everlasting  round. 

Yet  when  they  set  their  country  free. 
And  gave  her  traitors  fitting  doom, 

They  left  their  last  great  enemy, 
Baffled,  beside  an  empty  tomb. 
17 


Not  there,  but  risen,  redeemed,  they  go 
Where  all  the  paths  are  sweet  with 
flowers ; 

They  fought  to  give  us  peace,  and  lo  ! 
They  gained  a  better  peace  than  ours. 


SYDNEY  DOBELL. 

KEITH  OF  RAVELSTON. 

0  HAPPY,  happy  maid. 

In  the  year  of  war  and  death 

She  wears  no  sorrow  ! 

By  her  face  so  young  and  fair, 

By  the  happy  wreath 

That  rules  her  happy  hair, 

She  might  be  a  bride  to-morrow  ! 

She  sits  and  sings  within  her  moonlit 
bower, 

Her  moonlit  bower  in  rosy  June, 

Yet  ah,  her  bridal  breath. 

Like  fragrance  from  some  sweet  night- 
blowing  flower, 

Moves  from  her  moving  lips  in  many  a 
mournful  tune  ! 

She  sings  no  song  of  love's  despair, 

She  sings  no  lover  lowly  laid, 

No  fond  peculiar  grief 

Has  ever  touched  or  bud  or  leaf 

Of  her  unblighted  spring. 

She  sings  because  she  needs  must  sing ; 

She  sings  the  sorrow  of  the  air 

Whereof  her  voice  is  made. 

That  night  in  Britain  howsoe'er 

On  any  chords  the  fingers  strayed 

They  gave  the  notes  of  care. 

A  dim  sad  legend  old 

Long  since  in  some  pale  shade 

Of  some  far  twilight  told, 

She  knows  not  when  or  where. 

She  sings,  with  trembling  hand  on  trem- 
bling lute-strings  laid  :  — 

The  murmur  of  the  mourning  ghost 
That  keeps  the  shadowy  kine, 

"  0  Keith  of  Eavelston, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  line  !  " 

Eavelston,  Eavelston, 

The  merry  path  that  leads 
Down  the  golden  morning  hill. 

And  through  the  silver  meads  ; 

Eavelston,  Eavelston, 

The  stile  beneath  the  tree. 


258 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


The  maid  that  kept  her  mother's  kine, 
The  song  that  sang  she  ! 

She  sang  her  song,  she  kept  her  kine, 

She  sat  beneath  the  thorn 
When  Andrew  Keith  of  Ravelston 

Rode  through  the  Monday  morn  ; 

His  henchmen  sing,  his  liawk-bells  ring, 

His  belted  jewels  shine  ! 
0  Keith  of  Ravelston, 

The  sorrows  of  thy  line  ! 

Year  after  year,  where  Andrew  came, 
Comes  evening  down  the  glade. 

And  still  there  sits  a  moonshine  ghost 
Where  sat  the  sunshine  maid. 

Her  misty  hair  is  faint  and  fair, 
She  keeps  the  shadowy  kine; 

0  Keith  of  Ravelston, 
Tlie  sorrows  of  thy  line  ! 

1  lay  my  hand  upon  the  stile, 
Tiie  stile  is  lone  and  cold. 

The  burnie  that  goes  balibling  by 
Says  naught  that  can  be  told. 
« 

Yet,  stranger !  here,  from  year  to  year. 
She  keeps  her  shadowy  kine ; 

0  Keith  of  Ravelston, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  line ! 

Step  out  three  steps,  where  Andrew  stood ; 

Why  blanch  thy  clieeks  for  fear? 
Tlie  ancient  stile  is  not  alone, 

'T  is  not  the  burn  I  hear ! 

She  makes  her  immemorial  moan, 
She  keeps  her  shadowy  kine ; 

0  Keith  of  Ravelston, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  line  ! 


THOMAS  BURBIDGE. 


EVENTIDE. 

Comes  something  down  with  eventide, 
l>(!side  the  sunset's  golden  bars, 

Beside  the  floating  scents,  beside 
The  twinkling  shadows  of  the  stars. 

Upon  the  river's  ri])pliiig  face. 
Flash  after  flash  the  white 


Broke  up  in  many  a  shallow  place; 
The  rest  was  soft  and  bright. 

By  chance  my  eye  fell  on  the  stream ; 

How  many  a  marvellous  power 
Sleeps    in   us,  —  sleeps,    and    doth    not 
dream ! 

This  knew  I  in  that  hour. 

For  then  my  heart,  so  full  of  strife, 

No  more  was  in  me  stirred ; 
My  life  was  in  the  river's  life. 

And  I  nor  saw  nor  heard. 

I  and  the  river,  we  were  one : 
The  shade  beneath  the  bank, 

I  felt  it  cool ;  the  setting  sun 
Into  my  spirit  sank. 

A  rushing  thing  in  power  serene 

I  was ;  the  mystery 
I  felt  of  having  ever  been 

And  being  still  to  be. 

Was  it  a  moment  or  an  hour  ? 

I  knew  not ;  but  I  mourned 
When,  from  that  realm  of  awful  power 

I  to  these  fields  returned. 


ROSE  TERRY  COOKE. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

THE  ICONOCLAST. 

A  TnousAND  years  shall  come  and  go, 
A  thousand  years  of  night  and  day, 

And   man,  through   all   their   changing 
show, 
His  tragic  drama  still  shall  play. 

Ruled  by  some  fond  ideal's  power. 
Cheated  by  passion  or  despair, 

Still  shall  he  waste  life's  trembling  hour, 
In  worship  vain,  and  useless  prayer. 

Ah !  where  are  they  who  rose  in  might. 
Who  fired  the  temple  and  the  shrine. 

And  luirlcd,  through earth'schaoticnight, 
The  helpless  gods  it  deemed  divine? 

Cease,  longing  soul,  thy  vain  desire  ! 

What  idol,  in  its  stainless  prime. 
But  falls,  untouched  of  axe  or  fire. 

Before  the  steady  eyes  of  Time  ? 


ANNE   C.   (LYNCH)   BOTTA, 


259 


He  looks,  and  lo !  onr  altars  fall, 
The  shrine  reveals  its  gilded  clay. 

With  decent  hands  we  spread  the  pall, 
And,  cold  with  wisdom,  glide  away. 

0,  where  were  courage,  faith,  and  truth. 
If  man  went  wandering  all  his  day 

In  golden  clouds  of  love  and  youth, 
Nor  knew  that  both  his  steps  betray? 

Come,  Time,  while  here  we  sit  and  wait. 
Be  faithful,  spoiler,  to  thy  trust  I 

No  deatli  can  further  desolate 

The  soul  that  knows  its  god  was  dust. 


"IT  IS  MORE  BLESSED." 

Give  !  as  the  morning  that  flows  out  of 

heaven ; 
Give !  as  the  waves  wlien  their  channel 

is  riven ; 
Give !  as  the  free  air  and  sunshine  are 

given ; 
Lavishly,  utterly,  carelessly  give. 
Not  the  waste  drops  of  thy  cup  overflow- 

Not  the  faint  sparks  of  thy  hearth  ever 

glowing, 
Not  a  pale  bud   from   the   June   rose's 

blowing ; 
Give  as  He  gave  thee,  who  gave  thee 

to  live. 

Pour  out  thy  love  like  the  rush  of  a  river 
Wasting  its  waters,  for  ever  and  ever. 
Through  the  burnt  sands   that   reward 

not  the  giver ; 
Silent  or  songful,  thou  nearest  the  sea. 
Scatter  thy  life  as  the  Summer  shower's 

pouring ! 
What  if  no  bird  through  the  pearl-rain 

is  soaring? 
What  if  no  blossom  looks  upward  adoring  ? 
Look  to  the  life  that  was  lavished  for 

thee! 

Give,  though  thy  heart  may  be  wasted 

and  weaiy. 
Laid  on  an  altar  all  ashen  and  dreary ; 
Though  from  its  pulses  a  faint  niiserere 

Beats  to  thy  soul  the  sad  presage  of  fate. 
Bind  it  with  cords  of  unshrinking  devo- 
tion; 
Smile  at  the  song  of  its  restless  emotion  ; 
'T  is  the  stern  hymn  of  eternity's  ocean  ; 

Hear !  and  in  silence  thy  futui'e  await. 


So  the  wild  wind  strews  its   perfumed 

caresses, 
Evil  and  thankless  the  desert  it  blesses. 
Bitter  the  wave  that  its  soft  pinion  presses, 

Never  it  ceaseth  to  whisper  and  sing. 
What  if  the  hard  heart  give  thorns  for 

thy  roses  ? 
What  if  on  rocks  thy  tired  bosom  reposes  ? 
Sweetest  is  music  with  minor-keyed  closes, 

Fairest  the  vinesthat  on  ruin  will  cling. 

Almost  the  day  of  thy  giving  is  over ; 
Ere  from  the  grass  dies  the  bee-haunted 

clover. 
Thou  wilt  have  vanished  from  friend  and 

from  lover. 
What  shall  thy  longing  avail  in  the 

grave  ? 
Give  as  the  heart  gives  whose  fetters  are 

breaking. 
Life,  love,  and  hope,  all  thy  dreams  and 

tlu'  waking. 
Soon,  heaven's  river  thy  soul-fever  slak- 
ing 
Thou  shalt  know  God  and  the  gift  that 

he  gave. 


ANNE  C.  (LYNCH)  BOTTA. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

LOVE. 

Go  forth  in  life,  0  friend!  not  seeking 
love, 
A  mendicant  that  with  imploring  eye 
And   outstretched  hand   asks  of  the 
passers-by 
The  alms  his  strong  necessities  may  move  : 
For  such  poor  love,  to  pity  near  allied, 
Thy  generous  spirit  may  not  stoop  and 
wait, 
A  suppliant  whose  prayer  may  be  denied 
Like  a  spurned  beggar's  at  a  palace-gate  : 
But  thy  heart's  affluence  lavish  uncon- 
trolled, — 
The  largess  of  thy  love  give  full  and 
free. 
As  monarchs  in  their  progress   scatter 
gold ; 
And  be  thy  heart  like  the  exhaustless 
sea, 
That  must  its  wealth  of  cloud  and  dew 

bestow. 
Though  tributary  streams  or  ebb  or  flow. 


260 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


LYDIA  H.  SIGOUMEY. 

[U.    S.    A.,    179I-  1865.] 

mDIAN  NAMES. 

Ye  say  they  all  have  passed  away, 

Tluit  noble  race  and  brave ; 
That  their  light  canoes  have  vanished 

From  otr  the  crested  wave  ; 
That  mid  the  forests  where  they  roamed 

There  rings  no  hunter's  shout; 
But  their  name  is  on  your  waters, 

Ye  may  not  wash  it  out. 

'T  is  where  Ontario's  billow 

Like  ocean's  surge  is  curled, 
Where  strong  Niagara's  thunders  wake 

The  echo  of  the  world. 
"Where  red  Missouri  bringeth 

Rich  tribute  from  the  West, 
And  Rappahannock  sweetly  sleeps, 

On  green  Virginia's  breast. 

Ye  say  their  cone-like  cabins, 

That  clustered  o'er  the  vale. 
Have  fled  away  like  withered  leaves 

Before  the  autumn  gale ; 
But  their  memory  liveth  on  your  hills. 

Their  baptism  on  your  shore. 
Your  everlasting  rivers  speak 

Their  dialect  of  yore. 

Old  Massachusetts  wears  it 

Upon  her  lordly  crown. 
And  broad  Ohio  bears  it 

Amid  his  young  renown ; 
Connecticut  hath  wreathed  it 

Where  her  quiet  foliage  waves ; 
And  bold  Kentucky  breathed  it  hoarse 

Through  all  her  ancient  caves. 

Wachusett  hides  its  lingering  voice 

Within  his  rocky  heart, 
And  Alleghany  graves  its  tone 

Througlioiit  his  lofty  chart; 
Monadnock  on  his  forehead  hoar 

Doth  seal  the  sacred  trust ; 
Your  mountains  build  their  monument. 

Though  ye  destroy  their  dust. 

Ye  call  these  red-browed  brethren 

The  insects  of  an  hour, 
Crushed  like  the  noteless  worm  amid 

The  regions  of  their  power ; 
Ye  drivc'them  from  th(>ir  fathers'  lands, 

Ye  break  of  faith  the  seal, 


But  can  ye  from  the  court  of  Heaven 
Exclude  their  last  appeal  ? 

Ye  see  their  unresisting  tribes. 

With  toilsome  step  and  slow, 
On  through  the  trackless  desert 

A  caravan  of  woe ; 
Think  ye  the  Eternal  Ear  is  deaf? 

His  sleepless  vision  dim? 
Think  ye  the  soul's  blood  may  not  C17 

From  that  far  land  to  him  ? 


WILLIAM  H.  FUMESS. 

[U.   S.    A.] 

ETERNAL   LIGHT. 

Slowly,  by  God's  hand  unfurled, 
Down  around  the  weary  world. 
Falls  the  darkness ;  0,  how  still 
Is  the  working  of  his  will ! 

Mighty  Spirit,  ever  nigh, 
Work  in  me  as  silently ; 
Veil  the  day's  distracting  sights. 
Show  me  heaven's  eternal  lights. 

Living  stars  to  view  be  brought 
In  the  boundless  realms  of  thought; 
High  and  infinite  desires. 
Flaming  like  those  upper  fires. 

Holy  Truth,  Eternal  Right, 
Let  them  break  upon  my  sight; 
Let  them  shine  serene  and  still. 
And  with  light  my  being  fill. 


JAMES  T.  FIELDS. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

WORDSWORTH. 

The  grass  hung  wet  on  Rydal  banks. 
The  golden  day  with  pearls  adorning, 

When  side  by  side  with  him  we  walked 
To  meet  midway  the  summer  morning. 

The  west-wind  took  a  softer  breath. 
The  sun  himself  seemed  brighter  shin- 


HENRY   HOWAED  BROWNELL. 


261 


As    througli    the    porch    the    minstrel 
stepped, — 
His  eye  sweet  Nature's  look  enshrining. 

He  passed  along  the  dewy  sward, 

The  bluebird   sang  aloft  "good  mor- 
row !" 
He  plucked  a  bud,  the  flower  awoke, 
And  smiled  without  one  pang  of  sor- 
row. 

He  spoke  of  all  that  graced  the  scene. 
In  tones  that  fell  like  music  round  us; 

We  felt  the  charm  descend,  nor  strove 
To  break  the  rapturous  spell  that  bound 


We  listened  with  mysterious  awe, 

Strange   feelings    mingling   with   our 
pleasure ; 
We  heard  that  day  prophetic  words. 
High  thoughts  the  heart  must  always 
treasui'e. 

Great  Nature's  Priest !  thy  calm  career 
With   that  sweet  morn  on  earth  has 
ended : 
But  who  shall  say  thy  mission  died 
When,  winged   for   Heaven,  thy  soul 
ascended ! 


HEKEY  HOWAED  BROWNELL. 

[U.  S.  A.,   1820-  1872.] 

THE  BUniAL  OF  THE  DANE. 

BLrE  gulf  all  around  us, 

Blue  sky  overliead, — 
Muster  all  on  the  quarter. 

We  must  bury  the  dead  ! 

It  is  but  a  Danish  sailor. 

Rugged  of  front  and  form ; 
A  common  son  of  the  forecastle, 

Grizzled  with  sun  and  storm. 

His  name  and  the  strand  he  hailed  from 
We  know,  —  and  there 's  nothing  more  ! 

But  perha|js  his  mother  is  waiting 
In  the  lonely  island  of  Fohr. 


Still,  as  he  lay  there  dying. 

Reason  drifting  awreck, 
"'Tis  my  watch,"  he  would  mutter, 

"I  must  go  upon  deck  !" 

Ay,  on  deck, — by  the  foremast !  — 
But  watch  and  lookout  are  done ; 

The  Union -Jack  laid  o'er  him. 
How  quiet  he  lies  in  the  sun  !    • 

Slow  the  ponderous  engine, 

Stay  the  hurrying  shaft ! 
Let  the  roll  of  the  ocean 

Cradle  our  giant  craft,  — 
Gather  around  the  grating, 

Carry  your  messmate  ait ! 

Stand  in  order,  and  listen 

To  the  holiest  page  of  praj-er! 

Let  every  foot  be  quiet. 
Every  head  be  bare, — 

The  soft  trade-wind  is  lifting 
A  hundred  locks  of  hair. 

Our  captain  reads  the  service 
(A  little  spray  on  his  cheeks). 

The  grand  old  words  of  burial. 

And  the  trust  a  true  heart  seeks, — 

"We  therefore  commit  his  body 
To  the  deep,"  —  and,  as  he  speaks, 

Launched  from  the  weather-railing, 
Swift  as  the  eye  can  mark. 

The  ghastly,  shotted  hammock 
Plunges,  away  from  the  shark, 

Down,  a  thousand  fathoms, 
Down  into  the  dark  ! 

A  thousand  summers  and  winters 
The  stormy  Gulf  shall  roll 

High  o'er  his  canvas  coffin,  — 
But,  silence  to  doubt  and  dole ! 

There's  a  quiet  harbor  somewhere 
For  the  poor  a-weary  soul. 

Free  the  fettered  engine. 

Speed  the  tireless  shaft ! 
Loose  to'gallant  and  topsail, 

The  breeze  is  fair  abaft ! 

Blue  sea  all  around  us. 

Blue  sky  briglit  o'eihead, — 

Every  man  to  his  duty  ! 
We  have  buried  our  dead. 


262 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


BAYARD  TAYLOE. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

THE  MOUNTAINS. 
(From  "The  Masque  of  the  Gods.") 

Howe'er  the  wheels  of  Time  go  round, 

We  cannot  wholly  be  discrowned. 

We  bind,  in  form,  and  hue,  and  height, 

The  Finite  to  the  Infinite, 

And,  lifted  on  our  shoulders  bare, 

The  races  breathe  an  ampler  air. 

Thearms  that  clasped,  the  lips  that  kissed, 

Have  vanished  from  the  morning  mist ; 

The  dainty  shapes  that  flashed  and  passed 

In  spray  the  plunging  torrent  cast, 

Or  danced   through   woven   gleam   and 

shade. 
The  vapors  and  the  sunbeams  braid, 
Grow  thin  and  pale  :  each  holy  haunt 
Of  gods  or  spirits  ministrant 
Hath  something  lost  of  ancient  awe ; 
Yet  from  the  stooping  heavens  we  draw 
A  beauty,  mystery,  and  might. 
Time  cannot  change  nor  worshi})  slight. 
The  gold  of  dawn  and  sunset  sheds 
Unearthly  glory  on  our  heads ; 
The  secret  of  the  skies  we  keep ; 
And  whispers,  round  each  lonely  steep, 
Allure  and  promise,  yet  withhold. 
What  bard  and  prophet  never  told. 
While  Man's  slow  ages  come  and  go, 
Our  dateless  chronicles  of  snow 
Their  changeless  old  inscription  show, 
And  men  therein  forever  see 
The  unread  speech  of  Deity. 


AN  ORIENTAL  IDYL. 

A  .SILVER  javelin  which  the  hills 
Have  hurled  upon  the  plain  below, 

The  fleetest  of  the  Pharpar's  rills. 
Beneath  me  shoots  in  flashing  How. 

I  hear  the  never-ending  laugh 

Of  jostling  waves  that  come  and  go, 

And  suck  the  bubbling  jiipe,  and  quaff 
The  sherbet  cooled  in  mountain  snow. 

The  flecks  of  sunshine  gleam  like  stars 
Beneath  the  cano])y  of  shade  ; 

And  in  the  distant,  dim  bazaars, 
I  scarcely  hear  the  hum  of  trade. 


No  evil  fear,  no  dream  forlorn, 

Darkens  my  heaven  of  perfect  blue; 

My  blood  is  tempered  to  the  morn,  — 
My  very  heart  is  steeped  in  dew. 

What  Evil  is  I  cannot  tell ; 

But  half  I  guess  what  Joy  may  be ; 
Aiul,  as  a  pearl  within  its  shell. 

The  hapjjy  spirit  sleeps  in  me. 

I  feel  no  more  the  pulse's  strife,  — 
The  tides  of  Passion's  ruddy  sea,  — 

But  live  the  sweet,  unconscious  life 
That  breathes  from  yonder  j  asmine-tree. 

Upon  the  glittering  pageantries 
Of  gay  Damascus  streets  I  look 

As  idly  as  a  babe  that  sees 

The  painted  pictures  of  a  book. 

Forgotten  now  are  name  and  race ; 

The  Past  is  blotted  from  my  brain  ; 
For  Memory  sleeps,  and  will  not  trace 

The  weary  pages  o'er  again. 

I  only  know  the  morning  shines. 
And  sweet  the  dewy*morning  air. 

But  does  it  play  with  tendrilled  vines  ? 
Or  does  it  lightly  lift  my  hair? 

Deep-sunken  in  the  charmed  repose, 
This  ignorance  is  bliss  extreme ; 

And  whether  1  be  Man,  or  Rose, 

0,  pluck  me  not  from  out  my  dream  ! 


THE  VOYAGERS. 

No  longer  spread  the  sail ! 

No  longer  strain  the  oar ! 
For  never  yet  has  blown  the  gale 

Will  bring  us  nearer  shore. 

The  SM-aying  keel  slides  on. 
The  helm  obeys  the  hand  ; 

Fast  we  have  sailed  from  dawn  to  dawn, 
Yet  never  reach  the  land. 

Each  morn  we  see  its  peaks, 
Jiadc  lieautiful  with  snow; 

Eacli  eve  its  vales  and  winding  creeks, 
That  sleep  in  mist  below. 

At  noon  we  mark  the  gleam 

Of  temjdes  tall  and  fair; 
At  midniglit  watch  its  bonfires  stream 

In  the  auroral  air. 


SAEA   J.    LIPPINCOTT    ^GRACE   GREENWOOD). 


2G3 


And  still  the  keel  is  swift, 
And  still  the  wind  is  free, 

And  still  as  far  its  mountains  lift 
Beyond  the  enchanted  sea. 

Yet  vain  is  all  return, 

Though  false  the  goal  before ; 
The  gale  is  ever  dead  astern, 

The  current  sets  to  shore. 

0  shipmates,  leave  the  ropes ; 

And  what  though  no  one  steers, 
We  sail  no  faster  for  our  hopes, 

No  slower  for  our  fears. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  CAMP. 

"Give  us  a  song !"  the  soldiers  cried, 
The  outer  trenches  guarding, 

When  the  heated  guns  of  the  camps  allied 
Grew  weary  of  bombarding. 

The  dark  Redan,  in  silent  scoff. 
La}',  grim  and  threatening,  under ; 

And  the  tawny  mound  of  the  ]\lalakoff 
No  longer  belched  its  thunder. 

Tliere  was  a  pause.     A  guardsman  said  : 
"  We  storm  the  forts  to-morrow  ; 

Sing  while  we  may,  another  day 
Will  bring  enough  of  sorrow." 

They  lay  along  the  battery's  side. 

Below  the  smoking  cannon  : 
Brave  hearts,  from  Severn  and  from  Clyde, 

And  from  the  banks  of  Shannon. 

They  sang  of  love,  and  not  of  fame ; 

Forgot  was  Britain's  glory : 
Each  heart  I'ecalled  a  different  name, 

But  all  sang  "Annie  Laurie." 

Voice  after  voice  caught  up  the  song. 

Until  its  tender  passion 
Rose  like  an  anthem,  rich  and  strong,  — 

Their  battle-eve  confession. 

Dear  girl,  her  name  he  dared  not  speak, 
But,  as  the  song  grew  louder. 

Something  upon  the  soldier's  cheek 
Washed  ofif  the  stains  of  powder. 

Beyond  the  darkening  ocean  burned 

The  bloody  sunset's  embers. 
While  the  Crimean  valleys  learned 

How  English  love  remembers. 


And  once  again  a  fire  of  hell 

Rained  on  the  Russian  quarters, 

With  scream  of  shot,  and  burst  of  shell. 
And  bellowing  of  the  mortars  ! 

And  Irish  Nora's  eyes  are  dim 
For  a  singer,  dumb  and  gory ; 

And  English  Mary  mourns  for  him 
Who  sang  of  "Annie  Laurie." 

Sleep,  soldiers !  still  in  honored  rest 
Your  truth  anil  valor  wearing ; 

The  bravest  are  the  tenderest, — 
The  loving  are  the  daring. 


SAEA  J.  LIPPINCOTT  (GEACE 
GEEENWOOD). 

[U.    S.    A.] 

THE  POET   OF  TO-DAY, 

More  than  the  soul  of  ancient  song  is 
given 
To    thee,    0    poet    of  to-day !  —  thy 
dower 
Comes,  from  a   higher  than  Olj'mpian 
heaven, 
In  holier  beauty  and  in  larger  power. 

To  thee  Humanity,  her  woes  revealing, 
Would    all    her    griefs    and    ancient 
wrongs  rehearse ; 
Would  make  thy  song  the  voice  of  her 
appealing, 
And  sob  her  mighty  sorrows  through 
thy  verse. 

While  in  her  season  of  great  darkness 
sharing. 
Hail  thou  the  coming  of  each  promise- 
star 
Which  climbs  the  midnight  of  her  long 
despairing. 
And  watch  for  morning  o'er  the  hills 
afar. 

Wherever  Truth  her  holy  warfare  wages. 
Or  Freedom  pines,  there  let  thy  voice 
be  heard ; 
Sound  like  a  prophet-warning  down  the 
ages 
The  human  utterance  of  God's  living 
word. 


264 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


But  bring  not  thou  the  battle's  stormy 
chorus, 
The  tramp  of  armies,  and  the  roar  of 
fight, 
Not  war's  hot  smoke  to  taint  the  sweet 
morn  oer  us, 
Nor  blaze  of  jaillage,  reddening  up  the 
night. 

0,  let  thy  lays  prolong  that  angel-sing- 
ing. 
Girdling  with  music  the  Redeemers 
star, 
And  breathe  God's  peace,  to  earth  'glad 
tidings '  bringing 
From  the  near  heavens,  of  old  so  dim 
and  far  ! 


ALEXANDER  SMITH. 

[1830- 1S67.] 

LADY  BARBARA. 

Earl  Gawain  wooed  the  Lady  Barbara, 
High-thoughted  Barbara,  so  white  and 

cold ! 
'Mong   broad-branched   beeches   in   the 

summer  shaw, 
In  soft  green  light  his  passion  he  has 

told. 
AV^hen  rain-beat  winds  did  shriek  across 

the  wold, 
The  Earl  to  take  her  fair  reluctant  ear 
Framed   passion-trembled  ditties   mani- 
fold; 
Silent   she  sat  his   amorous   breath   to 

hear. 
With  calm  and  steady  eyes ;  her  heart 

was  otherwhere. 

He  sighed  for  her  through  all  the  sum- 
mer weeks ; 

Sitting  beneath  a  tree  whose  fruitful 
boughs 

Bore  glorious  apples  with  smooth,  shin- 
ing cheeks, 

Earl  Gawain  cameand  whispered,  "Lady, 
rouse ! 

Thou  art  no  vestal  held  in  holy  vows ; 

Out  with  our  falcons  to  the  pleasant 
heath." 

Iler  father's  blood  leapt  up  unto  her 
brows,  — 


He  who,  exulting  on  the  trumpet's  breath, 
Came   charging   like  a   star  across  the 
lists  of  death. 

Trembled,   and  passed  before  her  high 

rebuke : 
And  then  she   sat,   her  hands   clasped 

round  her  knee : 
Like  one  far-thoughted  was   the  lady's 

look. 
For  in  a  morning  cold  as  misery 
She  saw  a  lone  ship  sailing  on  the  sea ; 
Before  the   north  't  was  driven   like   a 

cloud, 
High  on  the  poop  a  man  sat  mournfully  : 
The  wind  was  wliistling  through  mast 

and  shroud. 
And  to  the  whistling  wind  thus  did  he 

sing  aloud  :  — 

"Didst  look  last  night  upon  my  native 

vales. 
Thou  Sun  !  that  from  the  drenching  sea 

hast  clomb  ? 
Ye  demon  winds !  that  glut  my  gaping 

sails, 
Upon  the  salt  sea  must  I  ever  roam, 
Wander  forever  on  the  barren  foam  ? 
0,  happy  are  }'-e,  resting  mariners! 
0  Death,  that  thou  wouldst  come  and 

and  take  me  home  ! 
A  hand  unseen  this  vessel  onward  steers, 
And  onward  I  must  float  through  slow, 

moon-measured  years. 

"  Ye  winds !  when  like  a  curse  j^e  drove 

us  on, 
Frothing  the  waters,  and  along  our  way, 
Nor    cape    nor    headland    through    red 

mornings  shone. 
One  wept  aloud,  one  shuddered  down  to 

pray. 
One   howled    '  Upon  the   deep  we   are 

astray. ' 
On  our  wild  hearts  his  words  fell  like  a 

blight: 
In  one  sliort  hour  my  hair  was  stricken 

gray, 
For  all  the  crew  sank   ghastly  in   my 

sight 
As   we   went   driving    on    through   the 

cold  starry  night. 

"Madness  fell  on  me  in  my  loneliness. 
The  sea  foamed  curses,  and  the  reeling 
sky 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


265 


Became  a  dreadful  face  which  did  oppress 
Me  with  the  weight  of  its  unwiukiug 

eye. 
It  fled,  when  I  burst  forth  into  a  cry,  — 
A  shoal  of  fiends  came  on  me  from  the 

deep ; 
I  hid,  but  in  all  corners  they  did  pry. 
And  dragged  me  forth,  and  round  did 

dance  and  leap ; 
They  mouthed  on  me  in  dream,  and  tore 

me  from  sweet  sleep. 

"Strange   constellations    burned   above 

my  head, 
Strange  birds  around  the  vessel  shrieked 

and  tiew, 
Strange  shapes,  like  shadows,   through 

the  clear  sea  fled, 
As   our  lone    ship,    wide-winged,  came 

rippling  through. 
Angering  to  foam  the  smooth  and  sleep- 
ing blue. " 
The  lady  sighed,  "  Far,  far  upon  the  sea, 
]\ly  own  Sir  Arthur,  could  I  die  with  you  ! 
The  wind  blows  shrill  between  my  love 

and  me." 
Fond  heart !  the  space  between  was  but 

the  apple-tree. 

There  was  a  cry  of  joy,   with  seeking 

hands 
She  fled  to  him,  like  worn  bird  to  her 

nest; 
Like  washing  water  on  the  figured  sands, 
His  being  came  and  went  in  sweet  un- 
rest, 
As  from  the  mighty  shelter  of  his  breast 
The  Lady  Barbara  her  head  uprears 
With  a  wan  smile,  "  Methinks  I  'm  but 

half  blest : 
Now  when  I  've  found  thee,  after  weary 

years, 
I  cannot  see  thee,  love !  so  blind  I  am 
with  tears." 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

THE  TERRACE  AT  BERNE. 

Tex  years  ! — and  to  my  waking  eye 
Once  more  the  roofs  of  Berne  appear ; 

The  rocky  banks,  the  terrace  high, 
The  stream,  —  and  do  1  linger  here  ? 


The  clouds  are  on  the  Oberland, 

The  Jungfrau  snows  look  faint  and  far ; 

But  bright  are  those  green  fields  at  hand, 
And  tlirough  those  fields  comes  down 
the  Aar, 

And  from  the  blue  twin  lakes  it  comes. 
Flows  by  the  town,  the  churchyard 
fair. 
And  'neath  the  garden-walk  it  hums. 
The   house, — and  is   my  Marguerite 
there  ? 

Ah,  shall  I  see  thee,  while  a  flush 
Of  startled  pleasure  floods  thy  brow, 

Quick  through  the  oleanders  brush. 
And  clap  thy  hands,  and   cry,  'Tis 
thou? 

Or  hast  thou  long  since  wandered  back. 
Daughter  of  France !  to  France,  thy 
houie ; 

And  flitted  down  the  flowerj'  track 
Where  feet  like  thine  too  lightly  come  ? 

Doth  riotous  laughter  now  rejilace 
Thy  smile,  and  rouge,  with  stony  glare, 

Th}^  cheek's  soft  line  and  fluttering  lace 
The  kerchief  that  enwound  thy  hair? 

Or  is  it  over? — art  thou  dead?  — 
Dead? — and  no  warning  shiver  ran 

Across  ra}'  heart,  to  say  thy  thread 
Of  life  was  cut,  and  closed  thy  span ! 

Could  from  earth's  ways  that  figure  slight 
Be  lost,  and  I  not  feel  't  was  so  ? 

Of  that  fresh  voice  the  gay  delight 
Fail  from  earth's  air,  and  I  not  know  ? 

Or  shall  I  find  thee  still,  but  changed. 
But  not  the  Marguerite  of  thy  prime  ? 

With  all  thy  being  rearranged, 

Passed  through  the  crucible  of  time ; 

With  spirit  vanished,  beaut}^  waned, 
And  hardly  yet  a  glance,  a  tone, 

A  gesture,  —  anything,  —  retained 

Of  all  that  was  my  Marguerite's  own  ? 

I  will  not  know  !  —  for  wherefore  try    • 
To  things  by  mortal  course  that  live 

A  shadowy  durability 

For  which  they  were  not  meant  to  give  ? 

Like  driftwood  spars  which  meet  and  pass 
Upon  the  boundless  ocean-plain. 


266 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


So  on  the  se.a  of  life,  alas ! 

Man  nears  man,  meets,  and  leaves  again. 

I  knew  it  when  my  life  was  young, 
I  feel  it  still,  now  youth  is  o'er ! 

The  mists  are  on  the  mountain  hung. 
And  Marguerite  I  shall  see  uo  more. 


TJEANIA. 

SfiE  smiles  and  smiles,  and  will  not  sigh, 
Wiiile  we  for  hopeless  passion  die ; 
Yet  she  could  love,  those  eyes  declare, 
"Were  but  men  nobler  than  they  are. 

Eagerlj'  once  her  gracious  ken 
"Was  turned  \ipon  the  sons  of  men ; 
But  light  the  serious  visage  grew,  — 
She  looked,  and  smiled,  and  saw  them 
through. 

Our  petty  souls,  our  strutting  wits, 
Our  labored  puny  passion -fits,  — 
Ah,  may  she  scorn  them  still,  till  we 
Scorn  them  as  bitterly  as  she ! 

Yet  0,  that  Fate  would  let  her  see 
One  of  some  worthier  race  than  we,  — 
One  for  whose  sake  she  once  might  prove 
How  deeply  she  who  scorns  can  love. 

His  eyes  be  like  the  starry  lights,  — 
His  voice  like  sounds  of  summer  nights,  — 
In  all  his  lovely  mien  let  pierce 
The  magic  of  the  universe  ! 

And  she  to  him  will  reach  her  hand. 
And  gazing  in  his  eyes  will  stand. 
And  know  her  friend,  and  wee})  for  glee  ! 
And  cry,  Long,  long  I've  looked  for  thee ! 

Then  Avill  she  weep,  — with  smiles,  till 
then. 
Coldly  she  mocks  the  sons  pf  men. 
Till  then  her  lovely  eyes  maintain 
Their  gay,  unwavering,  deep  disdain. 


THE  LAST  WORD. 

Creep  into  thy  naiTow  bed. 
Creep,  and  let  no  more  be  said  ! 
Vain  thy  onset !  all  stands  fast ; 
Thou  thyself  must  break  at  last. 


Let  the  long  contention  cease ! 
Geese  are  swans,  and  swans  are  geese. 
Let  them  have  it  how  they  will ! 
Thou  art  tired ;  best  be  still ! 

They  out-talked  thee,  hissed  thee,  tore 

thee. 
Better  men  fared  thus  before  thee ; 
Fired  their  ringing  shot  and  passed, 
Hotly  charged, — and  broke  at  last. 

Charge  once  more,  then,  and  be  dumb ! 
Let  the  victors,  when  they  come, 
When  the  forts  of  folly  fall, 
Find  thy  body  by  the  wall. 


EGBERT  LORD  LYTTON. 


THE  ARTIST. 

0  Artist,  range  not  over-wide : 
Lest  what  thou  seek  be  haply  hid 

In  bramble-blossoms  at  thy  side, 
Or  shut  within  the  daisy-lid. 

God's  glory  lies  not  out  of  reach. 

The  moss  we  crush  beneath  our  feet, 
The  pebbles  on  the  wet  sea-beach. 

Have   solemn   meanings  strange  and 
sweet. 

The  peasant  at  his  cottage  door 

May  teach  thee  more  than  Plato  knew ; 

See  that  thou  scorn  him  not:  adore 
God  in  him,  and  thy  nature  too. 

Know  well  thy  friends.     The  woodbine's 
breath, 

The  woolly  tendril  on  the  vine, 
Are  more  to  thee  than  Cato's  death. 

Or  Cicero's  words  to  Catiline. 

The  wild  rose  is  thy  next  in  blood : 
Share  Nature  with  her,  and  thy  heart. 

The  kingcups  are  thy  sisterhood  : 
Consult  them  duly  on  thine  art. 

The  Genius  on  thy  daily  ways 

Shall  meet,  and  take  thee  by  the  hand: 
But  serve  him  not  as  who  obeys: 

He  is  thy  slave  if  thou  command : 

And  blossoms  on  the  blackberry-stalks 
He  shall  enchant  as  thou  dost  pass. 


ROBERT  LORD   LYTTON. 


267 


Till  they  drop  gold  upon  thy  walks, 
And  diamonds  in  the  dewy  grass. 

Be  quiet.     Take  things  as  they  come : 
Each  hour  will  draw  out  some  sur})rise. 

With  blessing  let  the  days  go  home : 
Thou  shalt  have  thanks  from  evening 
skies. 

Lean  not  on  one  mind  constantly : 
Lest,  where  one  stood  before,  two  fall. 

Something  God  hath  to  say  to  thee 
Worth  hearing  from  the  lij)s  of  alL 

All  tilings  are  thine  estate :  yet  must 
Thou  first  display  the  title-deeds. 

And  sue  the  world.     Be  strong :  and  trust 
High  instincts  more  than  all  the  creeds. 

The  world  of  Thought  is  packed  so  tight, 
If  thou  stand  up  another  tumbles : 

Heed  it  not,  though  thou  have  to  fight 
With  giants ;  whoso  follows  stumbles. 

Assert  thyself:  and  by  and  by 

The  \voi"ld  will  come  and  lean  on  thee. 

But  seek  not  praise  of  men  :  thereby 
8hall  false  shows  cheat  thee.     Boldly 
be. 

Each  man  was  worthy  at  the  first : 
God  s{)ake  to  us  ere  we  were  born : 

But  we  forget.  The  laud  is  curst : 
We  plant  the  brier,  reap  the  thom. 

Remember,  every  man  He  made 
Is  different :  has  some  deed  to  do. 

Some  work  to  work.     Be  undismayed. 
Though  thine  be  humble  :  do  it  too. 

Not  all  the  wisdom  of  the  schools 

Is  wise  for  thee.      Hast  thou  to  speak  ? 

No  man  hath  spoken  for  thee.     Rules 
Are  well :  but  never  fear  to  break 

The  scaffolding  of  other  souls : 

It  was  not  meant  for  thee  to  mount; 

Though   it   may  serve   thee.      Separate 
wholes 
Make  up  the  sum  of  God's  account. 

Earth's  number-scale  is  near  us  set ; 

The  total  God  alone  can  see  ; 
But  each  some  fraction  :  shall  I  fret 

If  you  see  Four  where  I  saw  Thi-ee  ? 

A  unit's  loss  the  sum  would  mar; 
Therefore  if  1  have  One  or  Two, 


I  am  as  rich  as  others  are. 
And  help  the  whole  as  well  as  you. 

This  wild  white  rosebud  in  my  hand 
Hath  meanings  meant  for  me  alone, 

Which  no  one  else  can  understand : 
To  you  it  breathes  with  altered  tone : 

We  go  to  Nature,  not  as  lords. 

But  servants ;  and  she  treats  us  thus : 

Speaks  to  us  with  indifferent  words, 
And  from  a  distance  looks  at  us. 

Let  us  go  boldly,  as  we  ought. 
And  say  to  her,  "  We  are  a  part 

Of  that  supreme  original  Thought 

Which  did  conceive  thee  what  thou  art : 

"  We  will  not  have  this  lofty  look : 
Thou  shalt  fall  down,  and  recognize 

Thy  kings :  we  will  write  in  thy  book ; 
Command  thee  with  our  eyes." 

She  hath  usurpt  us.  She  should  be 
Our  model ;  but  we  have  become 

Her  miniature-paintei-s.  So  when  we 
Entreat  her  softly,  she  is  dumb. 

Nor  serve  the  subject  overmuch  : 

Nor  rhythm  and  rhyme,  nor  color  and 
form. 

Know  Truth  hath  all  gi-eat  graces,  such 
As  shall  with  these  thy  work  inform. 

We  ransack  History's  tattered  page : 
We  prate  of  epoch  and  costume : 

Call  this,  and  that,  the  Classic  Age : 
Choose  tunic  now,  now  helm  and  plume : 

But  while  we  halt  in  weak  debate 

'Twixtthat  and  this  appropriate  theme, 

The  offended  wild-flowers  stare  and  wait. 
The  bird  hoots  at  us  from  the  stream. 

Next,  as  to  laws.  What 's  beautiful 
We  recognize  in  form  and  face : 

And  judge  it  thus,  and  thus,  by  rule, 
As  perfect  law  brings  perfect  grace : 

If  through  the  effect  we  drag  the  cause, 

Dissect,  divide,  anatomize. 
Results  are  lost  in  loathsome  laws. 

And  all  the  ancient  beauty  dies : 

Till  we,  instead  of  bloom  and  light, 
See  only  sinews,  nerves,  and  veins ; 

Nor  will  the  effect  and  cause  unite, 
For  one  is  lost  if  one  remains : 


268 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


But  from  some  higher  point  behold 
This  dense,  perplexing  comiilication ; 

And  laws  involved  in  laws  unlbld, 
And  orb  into  thy  contemplation. 

God,  when  he  made  the  seed,  conceived 
The  flower ;  and  all  the  work  of  sun 

And  rain,  before  the  stem  was  leaved, 
lu  that  prenatal  thought  was  done ; 

The  girl  who  twines  in  her  soft  hair 
The  orange-Hower,  with  love's  devotion, 

By  the  mere  act  of  being  fair 

Sets  countless  laws  of  life  in  motion ; 

So  thou,  by  one  thought  thoroughly  great, 
Shalt,  without  heed  thereto,  fullil 

All  laws  of  art.     Create  !  create  ! 

Dissection  leaves  the  dead  dead  still. 

Burn  catalogues.    Write  thine  own  books. 

What  need  to  pore  o'er  Greece  and  Rome? 
When  whoso  through  his  own  life  looks 

Shall  hud  that  he  is  fully  come, 

Through  Greece  and  Rome,  and  Middle 
Age: 

Hath  been  by  turns,  ere  yet  full-grown, 
Soldier,  and  Senator,  and  Sage, 

And  worn  the  tunic  and  the  gown. 

Cut  the  world  thoroughly  to  the  heart. 

The  sweet  and  bitter  kernel  crack. 
Have  no  half-dealings  with  thine  art. 

All  heaven  is  waiting  :  turn  not  back. 

If  all  the  world  for  thee  and  me 
One  solitary  shape  possessed. 

What  shall  I  say  ?  a  single  tree. 
Whereby  to  type  and  hint  the  rest, 

And  T  could  imitate  the  bark 

And  foliage,  both  in  form  and  hue, 

Or  silvery-gray,  or  brown  and  dark, 
Or  rough  with  moss,  or  wet  with  dew, 

But  thou,  with  one  form  in  thine  eye, 
("ouldst  ])onetrate  all  forms :  possess 

The  soul  of  form  :  and  multiply 
A  million  like  it,  more  or  less, — 

AVliieh  were  the  Artist  of  us  twain  ? 

TJu^  moral 's  clear  to  un<lerstand. 
Where'er  we  walk,  by  hill  or  plain, 

Is  there  no  mystery  on  the  land  ? 


The  osiered,  oozy  water,  mffle(\ 

By  fluttering  swifts  that  dip  and  wink  s 

Deep  cattle  in  the  cowsli])s  muffled, 
Or  lazy-eyed  upon  the  brink  : 

Or,  when  —  a  scroll  of  stars — the  night 
(By  God  withdrawn)  is  rolled  away, 

The  silent  sun,  on  some  cold  height, 
Breaking  the  great  seal  of  the  day : 

Are  these  not  words  more  rich  than  ours  ? 

0,  seize  their  import  if  you  can ! 
Our  souls   are  parched  like  withering 
flowers. 

Our  knowledge  ends  where  it  began. 

While  yet  about  us  fall  God's  dews, 
And  whisper  secrets  o'er  the  earth 

Worth  all  the  weary  years  we  lose 
In  learning  legends  of  our  birth, 

Arise,  0  Artist !  and  restore 

Their  music  to  the  moaning  winds, 

Love's  broken  pearls  to  life's  bare  shore, 
And  freshness  to  our  fainting  minds. 


ANNE  WHITNEY. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

BERTHA. 

The  leaves  have  fallen  from  the  trees ; 
For  under  them  grew  the  buds  of  ISIay, 
And  such  is  Nature's  constant  way  ; 

Let  us  accept  the  work  of  her  hand. 
Still,  if  the  winds  sweep  bare  the  height, 
Something  is  left  ibr  hearts'  delight, 

Let  us  but  know  and  understand. 

Berthalookeddown  fiom  the  rocky  cliff. 
Whose  f(^et  the  tender  foam-wreaths  kist, 
Toward  the  outer  circle  of  mist 

That  hedged  the  old  an<l  wonderful  sea. 
Below  her,  as  if  with  endless  hope, 
Up  the  beach's  marbhul  slope. 

The  waters  clomb  eternally. 

Many  a  long-bleached  sail  in  sight 
Hovered  awhile,  then  flitted  away, 
Beyond  the  opening  of  the  bay ; 

Fair  Beitha  entered  her  cottage  Inte; 
•'Ho  does  not  come,"she  said,  and  smiled. 


J.   II.   PERKINS. 


2G9 


"But  thesliore  isdark,  and  the  sea  is  wild, 
And,  dearest  father,  we  still niustwait." 

She  hastened  to  her  inner  room, 
And  silently  mused  there  alone  ; 
"  Three  springs  have  come,  three  winters 
gone, 

And  still  we  wait  from  hour  to  hour; 
But  earth  waits  long  for  her  harvest-time, 
And  the  aloe,  in  the  northern  clime. 

Waits  an  hundred  years  for  its  flower. 

"Under  the  apple-boughs  as  I  sit 
In  May-time,  when  the  robin's  song 
Thrills  the  odorous  winds  along. 

The  innermost  heaven  seems  to  ope  ; 
I  think,  though  the  old  joys  pass  from 

sight. 
Still  something  is  left  for  hearts'  delight, 

For  life  is  endless,  and  so  is  hope. 

' '  If  the  aloe  waits  an  hundred  years, 
And  God's  times  are  so  long  indeed 
For  simple  things,  as  flower  and  weed. 

That  gather  only  the  light  and  gloom. 

For  what  great  treasures  of  joy  and  dole. 

Of  life  and  death,  perchance,  must  the 

soul. 

Ere  it  Hower  in  heavenly  peace,  find 

room  ? 

"I  see  that  all  things  wait  in  trust, 
As  feeling  afar  God's  distant  ends, 
And  unto  every  creature  he  sends 

That  measure  of  good  that  fills  its  scope ; 
The  mamiot  enters  the  stiffening  mould. 
And  tlie  worm  its  dark  sepulchral  fold. 

To  hide  there  with  its  beautiful  hope." 

Still  Bertha  waited  on  the  cliff, 
To  catch  the  gleam  of  a  coming  sail, 
And  the  distant  whisper  of  the  gale. 

Winging  the  unforgotten  home  ; 
And  hope  at  her  yearning  heart  would 

knock. 
When  a  sunbeam  on  a  far-off  rock 

Married  a  wreath  of  wandering  foam. 

W^as  it  well?  you  ask — (nay,  was  it 
ill?)  — 
Who  sat  last  yearbj^the  old  man's  hearth; 
The  sun  had  passed  below  the  earth, 
And  the  first  star  locked  its  Avestern 
gate. 
When  Bertha  entered  hisdarkeninghome. 
And  smiling  said,  "He  does  not  come. 
But,  dearest  father,  we  still  can  wait ! " 


J.  H.  PEEKINS. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

THE  UPRIGHT  SOTJL. 

Late  to  our  town  there  came  a  maid, 
A  noble  woman,  true  and  pure. 

Who,  in  the  little  while  she  stayed, 
Wrought  works  that  shall  endure. 

It  was  not  anything  she  said,  — 
It  was  not  anything  she  did : 

It  was  the  movement  of  her  head, 
The  lifting  of  her  lid. 

Her  little  motions  when  she  spoke, 
The  presence  of  an  upright  soul. 

The  living  light  that  from  her  broke, 
It  was  the  perfect  whole  : 

We  saw  it  in  her  floating  hair, 
We  saw  it  in  her  laughing  eye ; 

For  every  look  and  feature  thei'e 
Wrought  works  that  cannot  die. 

For  she  to  many  spirits  gave 

A  reverence  for  the  true,  the  pure. 

The  perfect,  that  has  power  to  save, 
And  make  the  doubting  sure. 

She  passed,  she  went  to  other  lands, 
She  knew  not  of  the  work  she  did  ; 

The  wondrous  product  of  her  hands 
From  her  is  ever  hid. 

Forever,  did  I  say  ?     0,  no ! 

The  time  must  come  when  she  will  look 
Upon  her  ]iilgrimage  below, 

And  find  it  in  God's  book. 

That,  as  she  trod  her  path  aright. 
Power  from  her  very  garments  stole ; 

For  such  is  the  mysterious  might 
God  grants  the  upright  soul. 

A  deed,  a  word,  our  careless  rest, 

A  simple  thought,  a  common  feeling. 

If  He  be  present  in  the  breast. 
Has  from  him  powers  of  healing. 

Go,  maiden,  with  thy  golden  tresses. 
Thine  azure  eye  and  changing  cheek, 

Go,  and  forget  the  one  who  blesses 
Thy  presence  through  the  week. 


270 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Forget  liim  :  he  will  not  forget, 
But  strive  to  live  and  testify 

Thy  goodness,  when  earth's  sun  has  set, 
And  Time  itself  rolled  by. 


GEOEGE  MACDONALD. 


O  LASSIE  AYONT  THE  HILL  I 

0  LASSIE  ayont  the  hill ! 
Come  ower  the  tap  o'  tlie  hill, 
Or  roun'  the  neuk  o'  the  hill, 
For  I  want  ye  sair  the  nicht, 

1  'm  needin'  ye  sair  the  nicht, 
For  I  'm  tired  and  sick  o'  niysel', 

A  body's  sel'  's  the  sairest  weicht,  — 

0  lassie,  come  ower  the  hill ! 

Gin  a  body  could  be  a  thocht  o'  grace, 
And  no  a  sel'  ava ! 

1  'm  sick  o'  my  held,  and  my  ban's  and 

my  fai;e, 
An'  my  thoehts  and  mysel'  and  a' ; 
I  'm  sick  o'  tlie  warl'  and  a' ; 
The  licht  gangs  by  wi'  a  hiss; 
For  thro'  my  een  the  sunbeams  fa', 
But  my  weary  heart  they  miss. 

0  lassie  ayont  tlie  hill ! 
Come  ower  the  tap  o'  the  hill. 
Or  roun'  the  neuk  o'  the  hill ; 
Bidena  ayont  the  hill ! 

For  gin  ance  I  saw  yer  bonnie  held. 

And  tlie  suiiliclit  o'  yer  hair, 

The  ghaist  o'  mysel'  wad  la'  doun  deid ; 

1  wad  be  mysel'  nae  niair. 
I  wad  be  mysel'  nae  niair. 
Filled  o'  tlie  sole  rcmeid ; 

Slain  by  the  arrows  o'  licht  frac  yer  hair. 
Killed  by  yer  body  and  held. 

0  lassie  ayont  the  hill,  etc. 

But  gin  ye  lo'cd  me  ever  sae  sma'. 
For  tlie  sake  o'  my  bonnie  dame. 
Whan  I  cam'  to  life,  as  she  gaed  awa', 

1  could  bide  my  body  and  name, 

I  micht  bidt!  liy  iiiysrl'  tin;  weary  same; 

Aye  setting  nj)  its  hcid 

Till  1  turn  frae  the  claes  that  cover  my 

fniirie, 
As  gin  they  war  roun'  the  deid. 
0  lassie  ayont  the  hill,  etc. 


But  gin  ye  lo'ed  me  as  I  lo'e  j'on, 

I  wad  ring  my  aiii  deid  knell ; 

Mysel'    wad   vanish,  shot   through   and 

through 
Wi'  the  shine  o'  yer  sunny  sel'. 
By  the  licht  aneath  yer  broo, 
I  wad  dee  to  mysel',  and  ring  my  bell, 
And  only  live  in  you. 

0  lassie  ayont  the  hill ! 
Come  ower  the  tap  o'  the  hill, 
Or  roun'  the  neuk  o'  the  hill, 
For  I  want  ye  sair  the  nicht, 

1  'm  needin'  ye  sair  the  nicht. 
For  I  'm  tiretl  and  sick  o'  mysel', 

A  body's  sel'  's  the  sairest  weicht, — 
0  lassie,  come  ower  the  hill ! 


HYMN  FOR  THE  MOTHER. 

My  child  is  lying  on  my  knees ; 

The  signs  of  heaven  she  reads; 
My  face  is  all  the  heaven  she  sees. 

Is  all  the  heaven  she  needs. 

And  she  is  well,  yea,  bathed  in  bliss. 
If  heaven  is  in  my  face, — 

Behind  it  is  all  tenderness 
And  truthfulness  and  grace. 

I  mean  her  well  so  earnestlj'. 
Unchanged  in  changing  mood; 

My  life  would  go  without  a  sigh 
To  bring  her  something  good. 

I  also  am  a  child,  and  I 

Am  ignorant  and  weak  ; 
I  gaze  upon  the  starry  sky. 

And  then  I  must  not  speak; 

For  all  behind  the  starry  sky, 
Beliind  the  world  so  broad. 

Behind  men's  hearts  and  souls  doth  lio 
The  Inlinite  of  God. 

Ay,  tnie  to  her,  though  troubled  sore, 

I  cannot  choose  but  be : 
Thou  who  art  peace  forevermore 

Art  very  tnie  to  me. 

If  I  am  low  and  sinful,  bring 
Mor(^  love  where  ni'cd  is  rife; 

Tltoti,  knowest  what  an  awful  thing 
It  is  to  be  a  life. 


ELIZA  SPEOAT  TUENER. 


271 


Hast  thou  not  -wisdom  to  enwrap 
My  waywardness  about, 

In  doubting  safety  on  tlie  lap 
Of  Love  that  knows  no  doubt  ? 

Lo !  Lord,  I  sit  in  thy  wide  space, 
My  child  upon  my  knee ; 

She  looketh  up  into  my  face, 
And  I  look  up  to  thee. 


ELIZA  SPROAT  TURNER. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

AN  ANGEL'S  VISIT. 

Shk  stood  in  the  harvest-field  at  noon, 
And  sang  aloud  for  the  joy  of  living. 

She  said :  "'T  is  the  sun  that  I  drink  like 
wine, 
To  my  heart  this  gladness  giving." 

Kank  upon  rank  the  wheat  fell  slain  ; 

The  reapers  ceased.     "'Tis  sure  the 
splendor 
Of  sloping  sunset  light  that  thrills 

My  breast  with  a  bliss  so  tender." 

Up  and  up  the  blazing  hills 

Climbed   the    night   from   the   misty 
meadows. 
"Can  they  be  stars,  or  living  e5'-es 

That  bend  on  me  from  the  shadows?" 

"Greeting !"  "And  may  you  speak,  in- 
deed?" 

All  in  the  dark  her  sense  grew  clearer; 
She  knew  that  she  had,  for  company, 

All  day  an  angel  near  her. 

"May  you  tell  us  of  the  life  divine, 
To  us  unknown,  to  angels  given?" 

"Count  me  your  earthly  joys,  and  I 
May  teach  you  those  of  heaven. " 

"They  say  the  pleasures  of  earth  are  vain ; 

Delusions  all,  to  lure  from  duty  ; 
But  while  God  hangs  his  l)o\v  in  the  rain. 

Can  I  help  my  joy  in  beauty  ? 

"And  while  he  quickens  the  air  with  song, 
My  breaths  with  scent,  my  fruits  with 
flavor, 


"Will  he,  dear  angel,  count  as  sin 
My  life  in  sound  and  savor  ? 

"See,  at  our  feet  the  glow-worm  shines, 
Lo  !  in  the  east  a  star  arises ; 

And  thought  may  climb  from  worm  to 
world 
Forever  through  fresh  surprises  : 

"And   thought  is  joy.  .  .  .  And,  hark! 
in  the  vale 
Music,  and  merry  steps  pursuing ; 
They  leap  in  the  dauce, — a  soul  in  my 
blood 
Cries  out.  Awake,  be  doing! 

"Action  is  joy ;  or  power  at  play, 
Or  power  at  work  in  world  or  emprises : 

Action  is  life ;  part  from  the  deed. 
More  from  the  doing  rises." 

' '  And  are  these  all  ? "     She  flushed  in  the 
dark. 

"These  are  not  all.     I  have  a  lover; 
At  soundof  hisvoice,  at  touch  of  his  hand, 

The  cup  of  my  life  mns  over. 

"Once,    unknowing,    we    looked    and 
neared. 
And  doubted,  and  neared,  and  rested 
never,  \ 

Till  life  seized  life,  as  flame  meets  flame. 
To  escape  no  more  forever. 

"Lover  and  husband ;  then  was  love 
The  wine  of  my  life,  all  life  enhancing: 

Now  't  is  my  bread,  too  needful  and  sweet 
To  be  kept  for  feast-day  chancing. 

' '  I  have  a  child. "    She  seemed  to  change ; 
The  deep  content  of  some  brooding 
creature 
Looked  from  her  eyes.     "0,  sweet  and 
strange  ! 
Angel,  be  thou  my  teacher : 

"When  He  made  us  one  in  a  babe. 
Was  it  for  joy,  or  sorest  proving? 

For  now  I  fear  no  heaven  could  win 
Our  hearts  from  earthly  loving. 

"I  have  a  friend.  Howso  I  err, 
I  see  her  uplifting  love  bend  o'er  me ; 

Howso  I  climb  to  my  best,  I  know 
Her  foot  will  be  there  before  me. 


272 


SONGS   OF  THEEE   CENTURIES. 


"Howso  parted,  we  imist  be  nigh, 
Held  by  ohl  years  of  every  -weather; 

The  best  new  love  would  be  less  than  ours 
Who  have  lived  our  lives  together. 

"Now,  lest  forever  I  fail  to  see 
Eight  skies,  through  clouds  so  bright 
and  tender, 

Show  me  true  joy."     The  angel's  smile 
Lit  all  the  night  with  sjilendor. 

"Save  that  to  Love  and  Learn  and  Do 
In  wondrous  measure  to  us  is  given ; 

Save  that  we  see  the  face  of  God, 

You  have  named  the  joys  of  heaven." 


CHRISTIM  EOSSETTI. 


AFTER  DEATH. 

The  curtains  were  lialf  drawn,  the  floor 
was  swept 
And  strewn  \vith  rushes ;  rosemary  and 

may 
Lay  thiek  upon  the  bed  on  which  I  lay, 
Where  through  the  lattice  ivy-shadows 

crept. 
He  leaned  above  me,  thinking  that  I  slept, 
And  could  not  hear  him ;  but  I  heard 

him  say, 
"Poor  child!  poor  child!"  and  as  he 
turned  away. 
Came  a  deep  silence,  and  I  knew  he  wept. 
He  did  not  touch  the  shroud,  or  raise 
the  fold 
That  hid  my  face,  or  take  my  hand  in  his. 
Or  ruffle  the  smooth  pillows  for  my  head. 
He  did  not  love  me  living :  but  once 
dead 
He  pitied  me ;  and  very  sweet  it  is 
To  know  he  still  is  warm,  though  I  am 
cold. 


WEARY. 

1  WOFLD  have  gone  ;  God  bade  me  stay : 
I  would  have  worked;  God  bade  me 
rest. 
He  broke;  my  will  from  day  to  day ; 
He  read  my  yearnings  unexpressed, 
And  said  me  nay. 


Now  I  would  stay ;  God  bids  me  go : 
Now  I  would  rest ;  God  bids  me  work. 

He  breaks  my  heart  tossed  to  and  fro ; 
My  soul  is  wrung  with  doubts  that  lurk 
And  vex  it  so ! 

I  go,  Lord,  where  thou  sendest  me; 

Day  after  day  I  plod  and  moil ; 
But,  Christ  my  Lord,  when  will  it  be 

That  I  may  let  alone  my  toil 
And  rest  with  thee  ? 


DORA  GREENWELL. 


THE  SUNELOWER. 

Till  the  slow  daylight  pale, 
A  willing  slave,  fast  bound  to  one  above, 
I  wait;  he  seems  to  speed,  and  change, 
and  fail ; 

I  know  he  will  not  move. 

I  lift  m}'^  golden  orb 
To  his,  unsmitten  Avhen  the  roses  die, 
And  in  my  broad  and  burning  disk  ab- 
sorb 

The  splendors  of  his  ej^e. 

His  eye  is  like  a  clear 
Keen  flame  that  searches  through  me ;  1 

must  droop 
Upon  my  stalk,  I  cannot  reach  his  spheie  ; 

To  mine  he  cannot  stoop. 

I  win  not  my  desire, 
And  yet  I  f\iil  not  of  my  guerdon  ;  lo  1 
A  thousand  iiickering  darts  and  tongues 
of  hre 

Around  me  spread  and  glow ; 

All  rayed  and  crowned,  I  miss 
No  queenly  state  until  the  sununer  wane, 
The  hours  flit  by ;  none  knoweth  of  my 
bliss, 

And  none  has  guessed  my  pain ; 

I  follow  one  above, 
I  track  the  shadow  of  his  steps,  I  grow 
Most  like  to  him  1  love 

Of  all  that  shines  below. 


ELIZABETH   II.   WIIITTIEK. 


273 


VESPERS. 

When  I  have  said  mj'  quiet  say, 
When  I  have  sung  my  little  song, 
How  sweetly,  sweetly  dies  the  day 
The  valley  and  the  hill  along  ; 
How  sweet  the  summons,  "Come  away," 
That  calls  me  from  the  busy  throng ! 

I  thought  beside  the  water's  flow 
Awhile  to  lie  beneath  the  leaves, 
I  thought  in  Autumn's  harvest  glow 
To  rest  my  head  upon  the  sheaves ; 
But,  lo  !  methinks  the  day  was  brief 
And  cloudy ;  flower,  nor  fruit,  nor  leaf 
I  bring,  and  yet  accepted,  free. 
And  blest,  my  Lord,  1  come  to  thee. 

AVhat  matter  now  for  promise  lost. 
Through  blast  of  spring  or  summer  rains  ! 
AVluit  matter  now  for  purpose  crost, 
For  broken  hopes  and  wasted  pains ; 
What  if  the  olive  little  yields. 
What  if  the  grape  be  blighted  ?     Thine 
The  corn  upon  a  thousand  fields. 
Upon  a  thousand  hills  the  vine. 

Thou  lovest  still  the  poor ;  0,  blest 
In  poverty  beloved  to  be ! 
Less  lowly  is  my  choice  confessed, 
I  love  the  rich  in  loving  Thee ! 
Jly  spirit  bare  before  thee  stands, 
I  bring  no  gift,  I  ask  no  sign, 
I  come  to  thee  with  empty  hands, 
The  surer  to  be  tilled  fiom  tliiue ! 


ELIZxVBETH  H.  WHITTIER. 

[u.  s.  A.,  i8i6-  1848.] 

CHARITY. 

The  pilgrim  and  stranger,  who,  through 

the  day. 
Holds  over  the  desert  his  trackless  way, 
Where  the  terrible  sands  no  shade  have 

known. 
No  sound  of  life  save  his  camel's  moan. 
Hears,  at    last,   through   the   mercy  of 

Allah  to  all, 
From  his  tent-door,  at  evening,  the  Bed- 
ouin's call : 
' '  Whoever  thou  art,  whose  need  is  great. 
In  the  name  of  God,  the  Compassionate 
And  Merciful  One,  for  thee  I  wait!" 


For  gifts,  in  his  name,  of  food  and  rest, 
The  tents  of  Islam  of  Clod  are  blest. 
Thou,  who  hast  faith  in  the  Christ  above. 
Shall  the  Koran  teach  thee  the  Law  of 

Love? 
0  Christian  !  —  open  thy  heart  and  door, — 
Cry,  east   and   west,  to   the   wandering 
poor,  — 
' '  Whoever  thou  art,  whose  need  is  gi-eat. 
In  the  name  of  Christ,  the  Compas- 
sionate 
And  Merciful  One,  for  thee  I  wait ! " 


THE  MEETING  WATERS. 

Close  beside  the  meeting  waters, 
Long  I  stood  as  in  a  dream. 

Watching  how  the  little  river 
Fell  into  the  broader  stream. 

Calm  and  still  the  mingled  current 
Glided  to  the  waiting  sea  ; 

On  its  breast  serenely  pictured 
Floating  cloud  and  skirting  tree. 

And  I  thought,  "0  human  spirit ! 

Strong  and  deep  and  pure  and  blest, 
Let  the  stream  of  my  existence 

Blend  with  thine,  and  find  its  rest !" 

I  could  die  as  dies  the  river, 
Inthat  current  deep  and  wide; 

I  would  live  as  live  its  waters, 
Flashing  from  a  stronger  tide ! 


UNKNOWN. 

WHEN  THE  GRASS  SHALL  COVER  ME. 

When  the  grass  shall  cover  me, 
Head  to  foot  where  I  am  lying ; 
When  not  any  wind  that  blows, 
Summer  bloom  or  winter  snows, 
Shall  awake  me  to  your  sighing : 
Close  above  me  as  you  pass. 
You  will  say,  "How  kind  she  was," 
You  will  say,  "How  true  she  was," 
When  the  grass  gi-ows  over  me. 

When  the  grass  shall  cover  me, 
Holden  close  to  earth's  warm  bosom ; 
While  I  laugh,  or  weep,  or  sing, 
Nevermore  for  anything 


274 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


You  will  find  in  blade  and  blossom, 
Sweet  small  voices,  odorous. 
Tender  pleaders  of  my  cause. 
That  shall  speak  me  as  I  was,  — 

"When  the  grass  grows  over  me. 

"When  the  grass  shall  cover  me ! 
Ah,  beloved  in  my  sorrow, 

"Very  patient  can  I  wait ; 

Knowing  that  or  soon  or  late, 
There  will  dawn  a  clearer  morrow : 

When  your  heart  will  moan,  "Alas, 

Now  I  know  how  true  she  was; 

Now  I  know  how  dear  she  was,"  — 
"When  the  grass  grows  over  me. 


UNKNOWN. 

AGAIN. 

0,  SWEET  and  fair !     0,  ricli  and  rare ! 

That  day  so  long  ago. 
The  autunm  sunshine  everywhere, 

The  heather  all  aglow. 
The  ferns  were  clad  in  cloth  of  gold, 

The  waves  sang  on  the  shore. 
Such  suns  will  shine,  such  waves  will  sing 

Forever  evermore. 

0,  fit  and  few  !     0,  tried  and  true  ! 

The  friends  who  met  that  day. 
Each  one  the  other's  spirit  knew, 

And  so  in  earnest  jday 
The  hours  flew  past,  until  at  last 

The  twilight  kissed  the  shore. 
We  said,  "Such  days  shall  come  again 

Forever  evermore." 

One  day  again,  no  cloud  of  pain 

A  shadow  o'er  us  cast ; 
And  yet  we  strove  in  vain,  in  vain. 

To  conjure  up  the  past ; 
Like,  but  unlike,  — the  sun  that  shone, 

The  waves  that  beat  the  sliore, 
The  words  we  said,  the  songs  we  sung, 

Like,  —  unlike,  — evermore. 

For  ghosts  unseen  crept  in  between, 

And,  when  our  songs  flowed  free. 
Sang  discords  in  an  undertone. 

And  maiTed  our  harmony. 
"The  j)ast  is  ouis,  not  youis,"  they  said : 

"The  waves  that  beat  the  shore, 
Thougli  like  the  same,  are  not  the  same, 

0,  never,  never  more !  " 


LUCY  LAECOM. 

[U.    S.   A.] 

A  STRIP  OF  BLUE, 

I  DO  not  own  an  inch  of  land. 

But  all  I  see  is  mine,  — 
The  orchard  and  the  mowing-fields. 

The  lawns  and  gardens  fine. 
The  winds  my  tax-collectors  are. 

They  bring  me  tithes  divine,  — 
AVild  scents  and  subtle  essences, 

A  tribute  rare  and  free  : 
And  more  magnificent  than  all, 

My  window  keeps  for  me 
A  glimpse  of  blue  immensity,  — 

A  little  strip  of  sea. 

Richer  am  I  than  he  who  owna 

Great  fleets  and  argosies ; 
I  have  a  share  in  every  ship 

Won  by  the  inland  breeze 
To  loiter  on  yon  airy  road 

Above  the  apple-trees. 
I  freight  them  with  my  untold  dreams. 

Each  bears  my  own  picked  crew ; 
And  nobler  cargoes  wait  for  them 

Than  ever  India  knew, — 
My  ships  that  sail  into  the  East 

Across  that  outlet  blue. 

Sometimes  they  seem  like  living  shapes,  — 

The  people  of  the  sky,  — 
Guests  in  white  raiment  coming  down 

From  Heaven,  which  is  close  by: 
I  call  them  by  familiar  names. 

As  one  bj'  one  draws  nigh. 
So  white,  so  light,  so  spirit-like, 

From  violet  mists  they  bloom  ! 
The  aching  wastes  of  the  unknown 

Are  half  reclaimed  from  gloom, 
Since  on  life's  hospitable  sea 

All  souls  find  sailing-room. 

The  ocean  grows  a  weariness 

With  nothing  else  in  sight ; 
Its  east  and  west,  its  north  and  south. 

Spread  out  from  morn  to  night : 
We  miss  the  warm,  caressing  shore, 

Its  brooding  shade  and  light. 
A  part  is  greater  than  the  whole ; 

By  hints  are  mysteries  told ; 
The  fringes  of  et(M-nity,  — - 

God's  sweeping  garment-fold, 
In  that  bright  shred  of  glimmering  sea, 

I  reach  out  for,  ami  hold. 


LUCY  LAECOM. 


275 


The  sails,  like  flakes  of  roseate  pearl, 

Float  in  upon  the  mist ; 
The  waves  are  broken  jjrecious  stones,  — 

Sapphire  and  amethyst, 
"Washed  from  celestial  basement  walls 

By  suns  nusettiug  kissed. 
Out  through  the  utmost  gates  of  space. 

Past  where  the  gay  stars  drift, 
To  the  widening  lutiuite,  my  soul 

Glides  on,  a  vessel  swift ; 
Yet  loses  not  her  anchorage 

In  yonder  azure  rift. 

Here  sit  I,  as  a  little  child  : 

The  threshold  of  God's  door 
Is  that  clear  band  of  chrysoprase ; 

Now  the  vast  temple  floor, 
The  blinding  glory  of  the  dome 

I  bow  my  head  before  : 
The  universe,  0  God,  is  home, 

In  height  or  dearth,  to  me ; 
Yet  here  upon  thy  footstool  green 

Content  am  I  to  be ; 
Glad,  when  is  opened  to  my  need 

Some  sea-like  glimpse  of  thee. 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

What  is  it  fades  and  flickers  in  the  fire. 
Mutters  and  sighs,  and  yields  reluctant 
breath, 
As  if  in  the  red  embers  some  desire. 
Some  word  proi^hetic  burned,  defying 
death? 

Lords  of  the  forests,  stalwart  oak  and  pine, 
Lie  down  for  us  in  flames  of  martyr- 
dom : 
Ahuman,  household  warmth,  theirdeath- 
fires  sliiue ; 
Yet  fragrant  with  high  memories  they 
come ; 

Bringing  the   mountain-winds   that   in 
their  boughs 
Sang  of  the  torrent,  and   the   plashy 
edge 
Of  storm-swept  lakes;   and  echoes  that 
arouse 
The  eagles   from   a   splintered   eyrie- 
ledge  ; 

And  breath  of  violets  sweet  about  their 
roots ; 
And  earthy  odors  of  the  moss  and  fern ; 


And  hum  of  rivulets ;  smell  of  ripening 
fruits ; 
And  green   leaves   that   to  gold  and 
crimson  turn. 

What  clear  Septembers  fade  out  in   a 
spark ! 
What  rare  Octobers  drop  with  every 
coal! 
Within   these    costly   ashes,  dumb   and 
dark, 
Are  hid  spring's   budding  hope,  and 
summer's  soul. 

Pictures  far  lovelier  smoulder  in  the  fire, 
Visions  of  friends  who  walked  among 
these  trees. 
Whose  presence,  like  the  free  air,  could 
inspire 
A   winged   life   and   boundless    sym- 
pathies. 

Eyes  with  a  glow  like  that  in  the  brown 
beech. 
When    sunset    through    its    autumn 
beauty  shines ; 
Or  the  blue  gentian's  look  of  silent  speech, 
To  heaven  appealing  as  earth's  light 
declines ; 

Voices  and  steps  forever  fled  away 
Fi'om  the  familiar  glens,  the  haunted 
hills,  — 
Most  pitiful  and  strange  it  is  to  stay 
Without  you  in  a  world  your  lost  love 
fills. 

Do  you  forget  us,  —  under  Eden  trees. 
Or  in  full  sunshine   on  the   hills  of 
God, — 
Who  miss  you  from  the  shadow  and  the 
breeze. 
And  tints  and  perfumes  of  the  wood- 
land sod? 

Dear  for  your  sake  the  fireside  where  we 
sit 
Watching  these  sad,  bright  pictures 
come  and  go 
That  waning  years  are  with  your  memory 
lit. 
Is  the  one  lonely  comfort  that  we  know. 

Is  it  all  memoiy  ?  Lo,  these  forest-boughs 
Burst  on  the  hearth  into   fresh   leaf 
and  bloom ; 


276 


SONGS  OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


"Waft  a  vaf,n;e,  far-off  sweetness  through 
the  house, 
And    giv^e   close   walls   the   hillside's 
breathing-room. 

Asecondlife,  more  spiiitual  than  the  first, 
They  find,  a  life  won  only  out  of 
death. — 

0  sainted  souls,  within  you  still  is  nursed 
For  us  a  flame  not  fed  by  mortal  breath  ! 

Unseen,  ye  bring  to  us,  who  love  and 
wait, 
Wafts  from  the  heavenly  hills,  immor- 
tal air ; 
No    flood    can     quench     your     hearts' 
warmth,  or  abate ; 
Ye  are  our  gladness,  here  and  every- 
where. 


CHARLOTTE  P.  HAWES. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

DOWN  THE  SLOPE. 

Who  knovveth  life  but  ([uestions  death 
With  gaessings  of  that  dimmer  day 
When  one  is  slowly  lift  fronr  clay 
On  winged  breath  ? 

But  man  advances:  far  and  high 
His  forces  fly  with  lightning  stroke: 
Till,  worn  with  years,  his  vigor  broke, 
He  turns  to  die  : 

AVhen  lo  !  he  finds  it  still  a  life ; 
New  ministi-ation  and  new  trust; 
Along  a  happy  way  that 's  just 
Aside  from  strife. 

And  all  day  following  friendly  feet 
That  lead  on  bravely  to  the  light. 
As    one    walks    downward,  strong  and 
bright. 
The  slanted  street,  — 

And  feels  earth's  benedictions  wide. 
Alike  on  forest,  lake,  or  town  ; 
Nor  marks  the  slope, — he  going  down 
The  sunniest  side. 

0,  bounteous  natures  everywhere  ! 
Perchance  at  least  one  need  not  fear 
A  change  to  cross  from  your  love  here 
To  (Jod's  love  there. 


UNKNOAVN. 

THE  TWO  WORLDS. 

Two  worlds  there  are.     To  one  our  eyes 

we  strain. 
Whose  magic  joys  we  shall  not  see  again : 
Bright  haze  of  morning  veils  its  glim- 
mering shore. 
Ah,  truly  breathed  we  there 
Intoxicating  air,  — 
Glad   were   our  hearts  in  that  sweet 
realm  of 
Nevermore. 

The  lover  there  drank  her  delicious  breath 
Whose  love  has  yielded  since  to  change 
or  death ; 
The  mother  kissed  her  child  whoso 
days  are  o'er. 
Alas  !  too  soon  have  fled 
The  irreclaimable  dead : 
We  see  them — visions  strange — amid 
the 
Nevermore. 

The  merry  song  some  maiden  used  tosing, 
The  brown,  brown  hair  that  once  was 
wont  to  cling 
To  temples  long  clay-cold:  to  the  very 
core 
They  strike  our  weary  hearts 
As  some  vexed  memory  starts 
From    that    long    faded    land,— the 
realm  of 
Nevermore. 

It  is  perpetual  summer  there.     But  here 
Sadly  we  may  remember  rivers  clear, 
And  harebells  (piivering  on  the  mead- 
ow-floor. 
For  brighter  bcdls  and  bluer, 
For  tenderer  hearts  and  truer, 
People  that  happy  land— the  realm  of 
Nevermore. 

Upon  the  frontier  of  this  shadowy  land 
AVe,  ])ilgrims  of  eternal  sorrow,  stand  : 
AVhat  realm  lies  forward,  with  its  hap- 
pier store 
Of  forests  green  and  deep, 
Of  vallcvs  hushed  in  sleep, 
And  lakes  most  peaceful?     'T  is  the 
land  of 
Evermore. 


ADELINE   D.   T.   WHITNEY.  —  NANCY  A.   "VV.    PRIEST. 


277 


Very  far  off  its  marble  cities  seem,  — 
Very  faroff —  beyuiid  our  sensual  dream — 
Its  woods,  uurutHcd  by  the  wild  winds' 
roar : 
Yet  does  the  turbulent  surge 
Howl  on  its  very  verge. 
One  monieut,  — and  we  breathe  within 
the 
Evermore. 

They  whom  we  loved  and  lost  so  long 

ago. 
Dwell  in  those  cities,  far  from  mortal 

woe, 
Haunt  those   fresh    woodlands,  whence 
sweet  carollings  soar. 
Eternal  peace  have  they  : 
God  wipes  their  tears  away : 
They  drink  that  river  of  life  M'hich 
flows  for 
Evermore. 

Thither  we  hasten  through  these  regions 

dim, 
But  lo  !  the  wide  wings  of  the  sei'aphim 
Shine  in  the  sunset !     On  that  joyous 
shore 
Our  lightened  liearts  shall  know 
The  life  of  long  ago : 
The  sorrow-burdened  past  shall  fade  for 
Evermore. 


ADELINE  D.  T.  WHITNEY. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

SUNLIGHT  AND  STARLIGHT. 

God  sets  some  souls  in  shade,  alone ; 
They  have  no  daylight  of  their  own : 
Only  in  lives  of  happier  ones 
They  see  the  shine  of  distant  suns. 

God  knows.    Content  thee  with  thy  night, 
Thy  greater  heaven  hath  grander  light. 
To-day  is  close  ;  the  hours  are  small ; 
Thou  sit'st  afar,  and  hast  them  all. 

Lose  the  less  joy  that  doth  but  blind ; 
Eeach  forth  a  larger  bliss  to  find. 
To-day  is  brief:  the  inclusive  spheres 
Rain  raptures  of  a  thousand  years. 


'I  WILL  ABIDE  IN  THINE  HOUSE." 

Among  so  many,  can  He  care  ? 
Can  special  love  be  everywhere  ? 
A  myriad  homes, — a  myriad  ways,  — 
And  God's  eye  over  every  place. 

Over;  but  in?     The  world  is  full; 
A  grand  oinnipotence  nuist  rule; 
But  is  there  life  that  doth  abide 
With  mine  own  living,  side  by  side  ? 

So  many,  and  so  wide  abroad : 
Can  any  heart  have  all  of  God? 
From  the  great  spaces,  vague  and  dim. 
May  one  small  household  gather  Him? 

I  asked :  my  soul  bethought  of  this  :— 
In  just  that  very  place  of  his 
Where  He  hath  put  and  keepeth  you, 
God  hath  no  other  thing  to  do ! 


MNCY  A.  W.  PrJEST. 

[U.    S.   A.] 

OVER  THE  RIVER. 

Over  the  river  they  beckon  to  me, — 
Loved  ones  who  've  crossed  to  the  far- 
ther side ; 
The  gleam  of  their  snowy  roljes  I  see, 
But  their  voices  are  drowned  in  the 
rushing  tide. 
There  's  one  with  ringlets  of  sunny  gold. 
And  eyes,  the  reflection  of  heaven's 
own  blue ; 
He  crossed  in  the  twilight,  gray  and  cold. 
And  the  pale  mist  hid  him  from  mortal 
view. 
We  saw  not  the  angels  who  met  him  there; 
The  gates  of  the  city  we  could  not  see; 
Over  the  river,  over  the  river. 

My  brother  stands  waiting  to  welcome 
me ! 

Over  the  river,  the  boatman  pale 

Carried  another,  — the  houseliold  pet : 
Herbrown  curls  waved  in  thegentle gale  — 

Darling  Minnie  !  I  see  her  yet. 
She  crossed  on  her  bosom  her  dimpled 
hands. 
And   fearlessly  entered  the  phantom 
bark; 


278 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


We  watched  it  glide  from  the  silver  sands, 
And  all  our  sunshine  grew  strangely 
dark. 

We  know  she  is  safe  on  the  farther  side, 
Where  all  the  ransomed  and  angels  be ; 

Over  the  river,  the  mystic  river. 

My  childhood's  idol  is  waiting  for  me. 

For  none  return  from  those  quiet  shores, 
Who  cross  with  the  boatman  cold  and 
pale ; 
We  hear  the  dip  of  the  golden  oars. 

And  catch  a  gleam  of  the  snowy  sail, — 
And  lo  !  they  have  passed  from  our  yearn- 
ing heart ; 
They  cross  the  stream,  and  are  gone  for 
aye; 
We  may  not  sunder  the  veil  apart, 
That  hides  from  our  vision  the  gates 
of  day. 
We  only  know  that  their  barks  no  more 
May  sail  with  us  o'er  life's  stormy  sea  ; 
Yet  somewhere,  I  know,  on.  the  unseen 
shore. 
They  watch,  and  beckon,  and  wait  for  me. 

And  I  sit  and  think,  when  the  sunset's 
gold, 
Is  flushing  river,  and  hill,  and  shore, 
I  shall  one  day  stand  by  the  water  cold, 
And  list  for  the  sound  of  the  boatman's 
oar; 
I  shall  watch  for  a  gleam  of  the  flapping 
sail ; 
I  shall  hear  the  boat  as  it  gains  the 
strand ; 
I  shall  pass  from  sight,  with  the  boat- 
man pale. 
To  the  better  shore  of  the  spirit  land  ; 
I  shall  know  the  loved  who  have  gone 
before,  — 
And  joyfully  sweet  will  the  meeting  be, 
When  over  the  river,  the  peaceful  river, 
The  Angel  of  Death  shall  carry  me. 


ADELAIDE  A.  rROCTER. 


JUDGE  NOT. 

JunoE  not;  the  workings  of  liis  brain 
And  of  his  licart  thou  canst  not  see; 

What  looks  to  thy  dim  eyes  a  stain, 
In  God's  pure  light  may  only  be 


A  scar,  brought  from  some  well- won  field, 
Where  thou  wouldst  only  faint  and  yield. 

The  look,  the  air,  that  frets  thy  sight 

May  be  a  token  that  below 
The  soul  has  closed  in  deadly  fight 

With  some  infernal  fieiy  foe. 
Whose  glance  would  scorch  thy  smiling 

grace. 
And  cast  thee  shuddering  on  thy  face ! 

The  fall  thou  darest  to  despise,  — 
May  be  the  angel's  slackened  hand 

Has  suff"ered  it,  that  he  may  rise 
And  take  a  firmer,  surer  stand ; 

Or,  trusting  less  to  earthly  things, 

May  henceforth  learn  to  use  his  wings. 

And  judge  none  lost ;  but  wait  and  see, 
With  hopeful  pity,  not  disdain ; 

The  depth  of  the  abyss  may  be 
The  measure  of  the  height  of  pain 

And  love  and  glory  that  may  raise 

This  soul  to  God  in  after  days ! 


FRIEND  SORROW. 

Do  not  cheat  thy  heart,  and  tell  her 

"Grief  will  pass  away  ; 
Hope  for  fairer  times  in  future, 

And  forget  to-day." 
Tell  her,  if  you  will,  that  Sorrow 

Need  not  come  in  vain ; 
Tell  her  that  the  lesson  taught  her 

Far  outweighs  the  pain. 

Cheat  her  not  with  the  old  comfort 

(Soon  she  will  forget);  — 
Bitter  truth,  —  alas !  but  matter 

Rather  for  regiet. 
Bid  her  not  seek  other  pleasures, 

Turn  to  other  things ; 
Rather,  nurse  her  caged  Sorrow 

Till  the  captive  sings. 

Bid  her  rather  go  forth  bravely, 

And  the  stranger  greet. 
Not  as  foe,  with  shield  and  buckler, 

Rut  as  dear  friends  meet. 
]5id  her  with  a  strong  grasp  hold  her 

By  the  dusky  wings. 
And  she  '11  wliispcr,  low  and  gently. 

Blessings  that  she  brings. 


THOMAS  BUCHANAN  EEAD. 


279 


THOMAS  BUCHANAN  EEAD. 

[U.   S.    A.] 

THE  CLOSING  SCENE. 

Within  his  sober  realm  of  leafless  trees 
The  russet  year  inhaled  the  dreamy  air ; 

Like  some  tanned  reaper  in  his  hour  of  ease, 
When  all  the  fields  are  lying  brown 
and  bare. 

The  gray  bams  looking  from  their  hazy 

hills 

O'er  tlie  dim  waters  widening  in  the 

vales, 

Sent  down  the  air  a  greeting  to  the  mills. 

On  the  dull  thunder  of  alternate  flails. 

All  sights  were  mellowed  and  all  sounds 
subdued. 
The  hills  seemed  farther  and  the  streams 
sang  low ; 
As  in  a  dream  the  distant  woodman  hewed 
His  winter  log  with  many  a  muflled 
blow. 

The  embattled  forests,  erewhile  armed  in 
gold, 
Their  banners  bright  with  every  martial 
hue. 
Now  stood,  like  some  sad  beaten  host  of 
old. 
Withdrawn  afar  in  Time's  remotest 
blue. 

On  slumb'rous  wings  the  vulture  held 
his  flight; 
The  dove  scarce  heard  its  sighing  mate's 
complaint ; 
And  like  a  star  slowdrowning  in  the  light, 
The  village  church-vane  seemed  to  pale 
and  faint. 

The  sentinel-cock  upon  the  hillside  crew, 
Crew  thrice,  and  all  was  stiller  than 
before,  — 
Silent  till  some  repljdng  warder  blew 
His  alien  horn,  and  then  was  heard  no 
more. 

Where  erst  the  jay,  mthin  the  elm's  tall 
crest, 
Made  gaiTulous  trouble  round  her  un- 
fledged young. 


And  where  the  oriole  hung  her  swaying 
nest, 
By  every  light   wind   like  a  censer 
swung: — 

Where  sang  the  noisymasons  of  the  eaves, 
The  busy  swallows  circling  ever  near. 

Foreboding,  as  the  rustic  mind  lielieves, 
An  early  harvest  and  a  plenteous 
year; — 

Wliere   every  bird  which  chai-med   the 
vernal  feast. 
Shook  the  sweet  slumber  from  its  wings 
at  morn. 
To  warn  the  reajier  of  the  rosy  east,  — 
All  now  was  songless,  empty,  and  for- 
lorn. 

Alone  from  out  the  stubble  piped  the  quail, 
And  croaked  the  crow  through  all  the 
dreamy  gloom ; 

Alone  the  pheasant,  drumming  in  the  vale. 
Made  echo  to  the  distant  cottage  loom. 

There  was  no  bud,  no  bloom,  upon  the 
bowers ; 
The  spiders  wove  their  thin  shrouds 
night  by  night ; 
The  thistle-down,  the  only  ghost  of  flow- 
ers. 
Sailed  slowly  by,  passed  noiseless  out 
of  sight. 

Amid  all  this,  in  this  most  cheerless  air, 

And  wliere  the  woodbine  shed  upon 

the  porch 

Its  crimson  leaves,  as  if  the  Year  stood 

there 

Firing  the  floor  with  his  inverted  torch ; 

Amid  all  this,  the  centre  of  the  scene, 
The  white-haired  matron  with  monoto- 
nous tread. 
Plied  the  swift  wheel,  and  with  her  joy- 
less mien. 
Sat,  like  a  Fate,  and  watched  the  flying 
thread. 

She  had  known  Sorrow,  —  he  had  walked 
witli  her. 
Oft  supped  and  broke  the  bitter  ashen 
crust ; 
And  in  the  dead  leaves  still  he  heard  the 
stir 
Of  his  black  mantle  trailing  in   the 
dust. 


280 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTUMES. 


While  yet  lier  clieck  was  briglit  with 
summer  bloom, 
Her  couutiy  summoned  and  she  gave 
her  all ; 
And  twice  War  bowed  to  her  his  sable 
plume,  — 
Regave  theswoids  to  rust  upon  her  wall. 

Begave  the  swords, — but  not  the  hand 
that  drew 

And  struck  for  Liberty  its  dying  blow, 
Nor  him  who,  to  his  sire  and  country  true, 

Fell  mid  the  ranks  of  the  invading  foe. 

iiong,  but  not  loud,  the  droning  wheel 

went  on, 

Like  the  low  mumiur  of  a  hive  at  noon ; 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  memory  of  thegone 

Breathed  through  her  lips  a  sad  and 

tremulous  tune. 

At  last  the  thread  was  snapped :  her  head 
was  bowed ; 
Life  dropt  the  distaff  through  his  hands 
serene ; 
And  loving  neighbors  smoothed  her  care- 
ful shroud, 
While   death   and  winter  closed  the 
autumn  scene. 


JEAN  INGELOW. 

THE  HIGH   TIDE   ON   THE  COAST   OF 
LINCOLNSHIRE. 

(1571.) 

The  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry  tower, 
Tlie  lingers  ran  by  two,  by  three ; 

"  Pull,  if  ye  never  pulled  before ; 

Good  ringers,  jiull  your  best, "  quoth  he. 

"Play  uppe,  play  uppe,  0  Boston  bells! 

Ply  all  your  changes,  all  your  swells. 

Play  uppe  '  The  Brides  of  Enderby.'  " 

Men  say  it  was  a  stolen  tyde  — 

The  Lord  that  sent  it,  he  knows  all ; 
But  in  niyne  ears  dotli  still  al)ide 

The  message  that  the  bells  let  fall : 
And  tliere  was  naught  of  strange,  beside 
Tlii^  lliglits  of  miiws  and  peewits  ])i(,'d 
By   millions  crouched   on  the  old   sea- 
wall. 


I  sat  and  spun  within  the  doore. 
My  thread  brake  off,  I  raised  myne 
eyes; 
The  level  sun,  like  ruddy  oi-e, 

Lay  sinking  in  the  barren  skies ; 
And  dark  against  day's  golden  death 
She  moved  where  Lindis  wandereth, 
My  Sonne's  faire  wife,  Elizabeth. 

"Cusha!  Cusha!  Cusha!"  calling, 
Ere  the  early  dews  were  falling, 
Farre  away  I  heard  her  song. 
"Cusha!  Cusha!"  all  along; 
Where  the  reedy  Lindis  lloweth, 

Floweth,  fioweth, 
From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth 
Faintly  came  her  milking  song. 

"Cusha!  Cusha!  Cusha!"  calling, 
"  For  the  dews  will  soon  be  falling; 
Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow; 
Quit  your  cowslijis,  cowslips  yellow ; 
Comme  uppe   Whitefoot,   come  u])[te 

Lightfoot, 
Quit  the  stalks  of  parsley  hollow. 

Hollow,  hollow ; 
Come  uppe  Jetty,  rise  and  follow. 
From  the  clovers  lift  your  head ; 
Come    uppe    Whitefoot,    come    uppe 

Lightfoot, 
Come  ui^jie  Jetty,  rise  and  follow, 
Jetty,  to  the  milking-shed." 

If  it  be  long,  aye,  long  ago. 

When  I  beginne  to  think  howe  long, 
Againe  I  hear  the  Lindis  How, 

Swift  as  an  arrowe,  sliarp  and  strong  ; 
And  all  the  aire  it  seemeth  me 
Bin  full  of  floating  bells  (sayth  shee), 
That  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby. 

Alle  fresh  the  level  pasture  lay. 
And  not  a  shadowe  mote  be  scene. 

Save  where  full  fyve  good  miles  away 
The  steeple  towered  from  outthegreene. 

And  lo !  the  great  bell  farre  and  wide 

Was  heard  in  all  the  country  sido 

That  Saturday  at  eventide. 

The  swannerds  where  their  sedges  are 
Moved  on  in  sunset's  golden  breath, 
The  sheplierde  lads  I  heard  afarre, 
And  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth; 
Till  floating  o'er  the  grassy  sea 
( 'anie  downe  that  kyndly  message  free. 
The  "  Brides  of  Mavis  Enderby.' 


JEAN   INGELOW. 


281 


Then  some  looked  iippe  into  the  sky, 
And  all  along  where  Lindis  Hows 

To  where  the  goodly  vessels  lie, 

And  where  the  lordly  steeple  shows. 

They    sayde,    "And    why    should    this 
thing  be, 

What  danger  lowers  by  land  or  sea  ? 

They  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby ! 

"Por  evil  news  from  Mablethorpe, 
Of  pyi'ate  galleys  warping  down  ; 
For  shippes  ashore  beyond  the  scorpe, 
They   have   not   spared  to  wake  the 
towne ; 
But  while  the  Avest  bin  red  to  see, 
And  storms  be  none,  and  j)yrates  flee. 
Why  ring  '  The  Brides  of  Enderby '  ? " 

1  looked  without,  and  lo  !  my  sonne 
Came  riding  downe  -with  might  and 
main, 

He  raised  a  shout  as  he  drew  on. 
Till  all  the  welkin  rang  again, 

"Elizabeth!  Elizabeth!" 

(A  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 

Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth.) 

"The  olde  sea-wall  (he  cried)  is  downe, 
The  rising  tide  comes  on  apace. 

And  boats  adrift  in  yonder  towne 
Go  sailing  uppe  the  market-place." 

He  shook  as  one  that  looks  on  death: 

"God  save  you,  mother!"  straight  he 
saith ; 

"Where  is  my  wife,  Elizabeth?" 

"Good  Sonne,  where  Lindis  winds  away 
With  her  two   bairns  I   marked  her 
long ; 
And  ere  yon  bells  beganne  to  play 
Afar  I  heard  her  milking  song." 
He  looked  across  the  grassy  sea. 
To  right,  to  left,  "Ho  Enderby  !" 
They  rang,  "The  Brides  of  Enderby !" 

With  that  he  cried  and  beat  his  breast ; 

For  lo !  along  the  river's  bed 
A  mighty  eygre  reared  his  crest, 

And  uppe  the  Lindis  raging  sped. 
It  swept  with  thunderous  noise,  loud; 
Shaped  like  a  curling  snow-white  cloud. 
Or  Uke  a  demon  in  a  shroud. 

And  rearing  Lindis  backward  pressed. 
Shook  all  her  trembling  bankes  amaine ; 

Then  madly  at  the  eygre's  breast 

Flung  ui)pe  her  weltering  walls  again. 


Then  bankes  came  downe  with  ruin  and 

rout,  — 
Then  beaten  foam  flew  round  about,  — 
Then  all  the  mighty  floods  were  out. 

So  farre,  so  fast  the  eygi-e  drave, 

The  heart  had  hardly  time  to  beat, 
Before  a  shallow  seething  wave 

Sobbed  in  the  grasses  at  our  feet : 
The  feet  had  hardly  time  to  flee 
Before  it  brake  against  the  knee, 
And  all  the  world  was  in  the  sea. 

Upon  the  roofe  we  sate  that  night, 
The  noise  of  bells  went  sweeping  by : 

I  marked  the  lofty  beacon-light 

Stream  from  the  church-tower,  red  aud 
high,- 

A  lurid  mark  and  dread  to  see ; 

And  awesome  bells  they  were  to  mee, 

That  in  the  dark  rang  "Enderby." 

They  rang  the  sailor-lads  to  guide 

From  roofe  to  roofe  who  fearless  rowed  ; 

And  I  —  my  sonne  was  at  my  side. 
And  yet  the  ruddy  beacon  glowed : 

And  yet  he  moaned  beneath  his  breath, 

' '  O  come  in  life,  or  come  in  death ! 

O  lost !  my  love,  Elizabeth." 

And  didst  thou  visit  him  no  more  ? 

Thou  didst,  thou  didst,  my  daughter 
deare ; 
The  waters  laid  thee  at  his  doore. 

Ere  yet  the  early  dawn  was  clear. 
The  pretty  bairns  in  fast  embrace. 
The  lifted  sun  shone  on  thy  face, 
Downe  drifted  to  thy  dwelling-place. 

That  flow  strewed  wrecks  about  the  grass. 
That  ebbe  swept  out  the  flocks  to  sea ; 

A  fatal  ebbe  and  flow,  alas ! 

To  manye  moi'e  than  myne  and  me : 

But  each  will  mourn  his  own  (she  saith). 

And  sweeter  Avoman  ne'er  drew  breath 

Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth. 

I  shall  never  hear  her  more 
By  the  reedy  Lindis  shore, 
"Cusha,  Cusha,  Cusha!"  calling, 
Ere  the  early  dews  be  falling ; 
I  shall  never  hear  her  song, 
"Cusha,  Cusha!"  all  along. 
Where  the  sunny  Lindis  floweth, 

Goeth,  floweth ; 
From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth, 


282 


SONGS   OF  THEEE   CENTURIES. 


Wlien  the  water  winding  down 
Onward  tiowetli  to  the  town. 

I  shall  never  see  her  more 

Where  the  reeds  and  rushes  quiver, 

Shiver,  quiver ; 
Stand  beside  the  sobbing  river, 
Sobbing,  throbbing,  in  its  falling, 
To  the  sandy  lonesome  shore : 
I  shall  never  hear  her  calling, 
"Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow; 

Mellow,  mellow ; 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow ; 
Come  uppe  Whitefoot,  come  ujipe  Light- 
foot; 
Quit  your  pipes  of  parsley  hollow, 

Hollow,  hollow ; 
Come  ujijie  Lightfoot,  rise  and  follow; 

Lightfoot,  Whitefoot ; 
From  your  clovers  lift  the  head ; 
Come  uppe  Jetty,  follow,  follow, 
Jetty,  to  the  milking-shed." 


SEVEN  TIMES  FOUR. 

MATEENITY. 

Heigh-ho!  daisies  and  buttercups ! 
Fair  yellow  daffodils,  stately  and  tall ! 
When  the  wind  wakes  how  they  rock  in 

the  grasses. 
And  dance  with  the  cuckoo-buds  slender 

and  small ! 
Here 's   two    bonny    boys,   and    here 's 

mother's  own  lasses. 
Eager  to  gather  them  all. 

Heigh-ho !  daisies  and  buttercups ! 

Mother  shall  thread  them  a  daisy  chain ; 

Sing  them  a  song  of  the  pretty  hedge- 
sparrow. 

That  loved  her  brown  little  ones,  loved 
th(!m  full  fain ; 

Sing,  "Heart,  thou  art  wide  though  the 
house  bo  but  narrow," 
Sing  once,  and  sing  it  again. 

Heigh-ho  !  daisies  and  buttercups ! 
Sweet  wagging  cowslips,  they  bend  and 

they  bow  ;     , 
A  ship  sails  afar  over  warm  ocean  waters, 
And  haply  one  musing  doth  stand  at  her 

prow. 
0  bonny  brown  sons,  and  0  sweet  little 

daughters. 
Maybe  he  thinks  on  you  now. 


Heigh-ho  !  daisies  and  buttercups ! 

Fair  yellow  daffodils  stately  and  tall ! 

A  sunshiny  world  full  of  laughter  and 
leisure. 

And  fresh  hearts  unconscious  of  son'ow 
and  thrall ! 

Send  down  on  their  pleasure  smiles  pass- 
ing its  measure, 
God  that  is  over  us  all ! 


SEVEN  TIMES  SEVEN. 

LONGING  FOR  HOME. 

A  SONG  of  a  boat : — 
There  was  once  a  boat  on  a  billow : 
Lightly  she  rocked  to  her  port  remote. 
And  the  foam  was  white  in  her  wake  like 

snow. 
And  her  frail  mast  bowed  when  the  breeze 
would  blow. 
And  bent  like  a  wand  of  willow. 

I  shaded  mine  eyes  one  day  when  a  boat 

Went  curtsjdng  over  the  billow, 
I  marked  her  course  till,  a  dancing  mote, 
She  faded  out  on  the  moonlit  foam, 
And  I  stayed  behind  in  the  dear-loved 
home; 
And  my  thoughts  all  day  were  about  the 
boat, 
And  my  dreams  upon  the  pillow. 

I  pray  you  hear  my  song  of  a  boat. 

For  it  is  but  short : — 
My  boat  you  shall  find  none  fairer  afloat, 

In  river  or  port. 
Long  I  looked  out  for  the  lad  she  bore, 

On  the  open  desolate  sea. 
And  I  think  he  sailed  to  the  heavenly- 
shore. 

For  he  came  not  back  to  me  — 

Ah  me  1 

A  song  of  a  nest :  — 

There  was  once  a  nest  in  a  hollow  ; 

Down  in   the    mosses    and    knot-grass 

pi'essed. 
Soft  and  warm  and  full  to  the  brim. 
Vetches  leaned  over  it  purple  and  dim, 
With  buttercup-buds  to  follow. 

I  pray  you  hear  my  song  of  a  nest. 

For  it  is  not  long  : 
You  shall  n(!ver  light  in  a  summer  quest 

The  bushes  among,  — 


THOMAS   BAILEY  ALDEICH. 


283 


Shall  never  light  on  a  prouder  sitter, 
A  fairer  nestlul,  nor  ever  know 

A  softer  sound  than  their  tender  twitter, 
That  wind-like  did  come  and  go. 

I  had  a  nestful  once  of  my  own. 

Ah,  happy,  happy  I ! 
Right  dearly  1  loved   them ;  but  when 
they  were  grown 

They  spread  out  their  wings  to  fly. 
0,  one  after  one  they  tlew  away. 

Far  up  to  the  heavenly  blue. 
To  the  better  country,  the  upi)er  day. 

And  —  I  wish  I  was  going  too. 

I  pray  you,  what  is  the  nest  to  me, 

My  empty  nest  ? 
And  what  is  the  shore  where  I  stood  to 
see 

My  boat  sail  down  to  the  west  ? 
Can  I  call  that  home  where  I  anchor  yet. 

Though  my  good  man  has  sailed  ? 
Can  I  call  that  home  where  my  nest  was 
set. 

Now  all  its  hope  hath  failed  ? 

Nay,  but  the  port  where  my  sailor  went, 
And  tlie  land  where  my  nestlings  be : 
There  is  the  home  where  my  thoughts 
are  sent. 
The  only  home  for  me — 

Ah  me! 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

BEFORE  THE  RAIN. 

"We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  morn, 
A  spirit  on  slender  ropes  of  mist 

Was  lowering  its  golden  buckets  down 
Into  the  vapory  amethyst 

Of  marshes  and  swamps  and  dismal  fens,  — 
Scoopingthedewthat  layin  the  flowers. 

Dipping  the  jewels  out  of  the  sea, 

To   sprinkle  them  over  the  land  in 
showers. 

"We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  the  poplars 
showed 
The  white  of  their  leaves,  the  amber 
grain 
Shrunk  in  the  wind,  — and  the  lightning 
now 
Is  tangled  in  tremulous  skeins  of  rain  ! 


AFTER  THE  RAIN, 

The  rain  has  ceased,  and  in  my  room 
The  sunshine  pours  an  airy  flood ; 
And  on  the  churcli's  dizzy  vane 
The  ancient  Cross  is  bathed  in  blood. 


From  out  the  dripping  ivy-leaves, 
Antiquely  carven,  gray  and  high, 
A  dormer,  facing  westward,  looks 
Upon  the  village  like  an  eye : 

And  now  it  glimmers  in  the  sun, 
A  square  of  gold,  a  disk,  a  speck : 
And  in  the  belfry  sits  a  Dove 
With  purple  ripples  on  her  neck. 


PISCATAQUA  RIVER. 

Thou  singest  by  the  gleaming  isles. 
By  woods,  and  fields  of  corn. 

Thou  singest,  and  the  lieaven  smiles 
Upon  my  birthday  morn. 

But  I  within  a  city,  I, 

So  full  of  vague  unrest, 
Would  almost  give  my  life  to  lie 

An  hour  upon  thy  breast ! 

To  let  the  wherry  listless  go, 
And,  wrapt  in  dreamy  joy, 

Dip,  and  surge  idly  to  and  fro. 
Like  the  red  harbor-buoy ; 

To  sit  in  happy  indolence. 

To  rest  upon  the  oars. 
And  catch  the  heavy  earthy  scents 

That  blow  from  summer  sliores ; 

To  see  the  rounded  sun  go  down, 

And  with  its  parting  fires 
Light  up  the  windows  of  the  town 

And  burn  the  tapering  spires  ; 

And  then  to  hear  the  muffled  tolls 
From  steeples  slim  and  white, 

And  watch,  among  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 
The  Beacon's  orange  light. 

0  River !  flowing  to  the  main 

Through  woods,  and  fields  of  com. 


284 


SONGS   OF   THEEE   CENTURIES. 


Hear  tliou  my  longing  ami  my  pain 
Tliis  sunny  biithJay  morn ; 

And  take  this  song  wliicli  sorrow  shapes 

To  music  like  tlune  own, 
And  sing  it  to  the  cliffs  and  capes 

And  ciags  wheie  I  am  known ! 


EOBERT  BUCHANAN. 

THE  GREEN  GNOME. 

A   MELODY. 

King,  sing!  ring,  sing!  pleasant  Sabbath 
bells ! 

Chime,  rhyme  I  chime,  rhyme  !  through 
dales  and  dells ! 

Rhyme,  ring !  chime,  sing !  pleasant  Sab- 
bath bells ! 

Chime,  sing!  rhyme,  ring!  over  fields 
and  I'ells ! 

And  I  galloped  and  I  galloped  on  my 

palfrey  white  as  milk. 
My  robe  was  of  the  sea-green  woof,  my 

serk  was  of  the  silk ; 
My  hair  was  golden-yellow,  and  it  Uoated 

to  my  shoe ; 
My  eyes  were  like  two  harebells  bathed 

in  little  drops  of  dew  ; 
My  palfrey,  never  stopping,  made  a  music 

sweetly  blent 
With  the  leaves  of  autumn  dropping  all 

around  me  as  I  went; 
And  I  heard  the  bells,  grown  fainter,  far 

behind  me  peal  and  play. 
Fainter,  fainter,  fainter,  till  they  seemed 

to  die  away ; 
And  beside  a  silver  runnel,  on  a  little 

heap  of  sand, 
I  saw  the  green  gnome  sitting,  with  his 

cheek  upon  his  hand. 
Then  he  started  up  to  see  me,  and  he  ran 

with  a  cry  and  bound, 
And  drew  me  from  my  palfiey  white  and 

set  me  on  the  ground. 
0  crimson,  crimson  were  his  locks,  his 

face  was  green  to  see, 
But  he  cried,  "O  liglit-haired  lassie,  you 

are  bound  to  many  me ! " 
He  clasped  nu;  round  the  midille  small, 

he  kissed  me  on  the  cheek, 


He  kissed  me  once,  he  kissed  me  twice, 
I  could  not  stir  or  speak ; 

Pie  kissed  me  twice,  he  kissed  me  thrice  ; 
but  when  he  kissed  again, 

I  called  aloud  upou  the  name  of  Him 
who  died  for  men. 

Sing,  sing !  ring,  ring  !  pleasant  Sabbath 
bells ! 

Chime,  rhyme  !  chime,  rhyme  I  through 
dales  and  dells ! 

Rhyme,  ring !  chime,  sing !  pleasant  Sab- 
bath bells ! 

Chime,  sing  I  rhyme,  ring  !  over  fields 
and  fells ! 

0  faintly,  faintly,  faintly,  calling  men  and 

maids  to  pray. 
So  faintly,  faintly,  faintly  rang  the  bells 

far  away ; 
And  as  I  named  the  Blessed  Name,  as  in 

our  need  we  can. 
The  ugly  green  gnome  became  a  tall  and 

comely  man  : 
His  hands  were  white,  his  beard  was  gold, 

his  eyes  were  black  as  sloes. 
His  tunic  was  of  scarlet  woof,  and  silken 

were  his  hose ; 
A  pensive  light  from  faeryland  still  lin- 
gered on  his  cheek. 
His   voice  was  like  the  running  brook 

when  he  began  to  speak : 
' '  0,  you  have  cast  away  the  charm  my 

step-daine  put  on  me. 
Seven  years  have  I  dwelt  in  Faeryland, 

and  you  liave  set  me  free. 
0,  I  will  mount  thy  ])alfrey  white,  and 

ride  to  kirk  with  thee. 
And,  by  those  dewy  little  eyes,  we  twain 

will  wedded  be!" 

Back  we  galloped,  never  stopping,  lie 
before  and  I  behind. 

And  the  autumn  leaves  were  dropping, 
red  and  yellow  in  the  wind ; 

And  the  sun  was  shining  clearer,  and  my 
heart  was  high  and  proud. 

As  nearer,  nearer,  nearer  rang  the  kirk- 
bells  sweet  and  loud. 

And  we  saw  the  kirk,  before  us,  as  we 
trotted  down  the  fells, 

And  nearer,  clearer,  o'er  us,  rang  the 
welcome  of  the  bells. 

Ring,  sing !  ring,  sing  !  pleasant  Sabbath 

bells ! 
Chime,  rhyme  !  chime,  rhyme  !  through 

dales  and  dells ! 


E.   C.   STEDMAN. 


285 


Ehyme,  ring !  cliime,  sing !  pleasant  Sab- 
bath bells ! 

Chime,  sing!  rhyme,  ring!  over  fields 
and  fells ! 


E.  C.  STEDMAK 

[U.  S.  A.] 

THE  DOORSTEP. 

The  conference-meeting  throngh  at  last, 
We  boys  around  the  vestry  waited 

To  see  the  girls  come  tripping  past, 
Like  snowbirds  willing  to  be  mated. 

Not  braver  he  that  leaps  the  wall 
By  level  musket-Hashes  litten, 

Than  1,  who  stepped  before  tliem  all. 
Who  longed  to  see  me  get  the  mitten. 

But  no ;  she  blushed,  and  took  my  ann  ! 

We  let  the  old  folks  have  the  highway, 
And  started  toward  the  Maple  Farm 

Along  a  kind  of  lover's  by-way. 

I  can't  remember  what  we  said, 

'T  was  nothing  worth  a  song  or  story, 

Yet  that  rude  jjatli  by  whicli  we  sped 
Seemed  all  transformed,  and  in  a  glory. 

Tlie  snow  was  crisp  beneath  our  feet, 
The   moon  was   full,  the   fields  were 
gleaming ; 
By  hood  and  tippet  sheltered  sweet. 
Her  face  with  youth  and  health  was 
beaming. 

The  little  hand  outside  her  muff — 
0  sculptor,  if  you  could  but  mouldit !  — 

So  lightly  touched  my  jacket-cutf, 
To  keep  it  warm  I  had  to  hold  it. 

To  have  her  with  me  there  alone,  — 
'T  was  love   and    fear    and    triumph 
blended. 

At  last  we  reached  the  foot-worn  stone 
Where  that  delicious  journey  ended. 

The  old  folks,  too,  were  almost  home ; 

Her  dimpled  hand  the  latches  fingered, 
We  heard  the  voices  nearer  come, 

Yet  on  the  doorstep  still  we  lingered. 


She  shook  her  ringlets  from  her  hood. 
And  with  a  "Thank  you,  Ned,"  dis- 
sembled ; 

But  yet  I  knew  she  understood 

With  what  a  daring  wish  I  trembled. 

A  cloud  passed  kindly  overhead, 

The  moon  was  slyly  peeping  through  it. 

Yet  hid  its  face,  as  if  it  said, 

"Come,  now  or  never  !  do  it !  do  it!" 

My  lips  till  then  had  only  known 
The  kiss  of  mother  and  of  sister. 

But  somehow,  full  upon  iier  own 

Sweet,  rosy,  darling  mouth,  —  I  kissed 
her! 

Perhaps  't  was  boyish  love,  yet  still, 

0  listless  woman,  weary  lover ! 

To  feel  once  more  that  fresh,  wild  thrill 

1  'd  give —     But  who  can  live  youth 

over  ? 


PAN  IN  WALL  STREET. 

A.  D.   1867. 

Just  where  the  Treasury's  marble  front 

Looks  over  Wall  Street's  mingled  na- 
tions, — 
Where  Jews  and  Gentiles  most  are  wont 

To  throng  for  trade  and  last  quota- 
tions, — 
Where,  hour  by  hour,  the  rates  of  gold 

Outrival,  in  the  ears  of  people, 
The  quarter-chimes,  serenely  tolled 

From  Trinity's  undaunted  steeple;  — 

Even  there  I  heai'd  a  strange,  wild  strain 

Sound  high  above  the  modern  clamor, 
Above  the  cries  of  greed  and  gain, 

The  curbstone  war,  the  auction's  ham- 
mer,— 
And  swift,  on  Music's  misty  way.s, 

It  led,  from  all  this  strife  for  millions, 
To  ancient,  sweet-do-nothing  daj's 

Among  the  kirtle-robed  Sicilians. 

And  as  it  stilled  the  multitude, 

And  yet  more  joyous  rose,  and  .shriller, 
I  saw  the  minstrel  where  he  stood 

At  ease  against  a  Doric  pillar  : 
One  hand  a  droning  organ  played, 

The  other  held  a  Pan's-pipe  (fashioned 
Like  those  of  old)  to  lips  that  made 

The  reeds  give  out  that  strain  impas- 
sioned. 


286 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


'T  was  Pan  Inmsolf  had  waiidercil  here 

A-stroUiiig  through  this  sordid  (;ity, 
And  piping  to  the  civic  ear 

The  prelude  of  some  pastoral  ditty  ! 
The  demigod  had  crossed  the  seas,  — 

From  haunts  of  shepherd,  nymj)h,  and 
satyr, 
And  Syracusan  times, — to  tliese 

Far  shores  and  twenty  centuries  later. 

A  ragged  cap  was  on  his  head : 

But — hidden     thus — there    was    no 
doubting 
That,  all  with  crispy  locks  o'erspread, 
His  gnarled   horns  wei'e    somewhere 
sprouting ; 
His  club-feet,  cased  in  rusty  shoes, 
Were  crossed,  as  on  some  frieze  you 
see  them, 
And  trousers,  patched  of  divers  hues. 
Concealed  his  crooked  shanks  beneath 
them. 

He  filled  the  quivering  reeds  with  sound, 
And    o'er    his   mouth   their   changes 
shifted, 
And  with  his  goat's-eyes  looked  around 
Where'er  the  passing  current  drifted ; 
And  soon,  as  on  Triuacrian  hills 

The  nymphs  and  herdsmen  ran  to  hear 
him, 
Even  now  the  tradesmen  from  their  tills, 
With  clerks  and  porters,  crowded  near 
him. 

The  bulls  and  bears  together  drew 

From  Jauncey  Court  and  New  Street 
Alley, 
As  erst,  if  pastorals  he  true, 

Came  Ijeasts  from  every  wooded  valley ; 
Tlie  random  passers  stayed  to  list,  — 

A  boxer  iEgon,  rough  and  merry, — 
A  Broadway  Daphiiis,  on  his  tryst 

With  Nais  at  the  Brooklyn  Ferry. 

A  one-eyed  Cyclops  halted  long 

In  tattered  cloak  of  army  pattern, 
And  Galatea  joined  the  throng, — 

A  blowsy,  apple-vending  slattern  ; 
While  old  Silenus  staggci'ed  out 

From   some  new-fangled  lunch-house 
handy, 
And  bade  the  piper,  with  a  shout. 

To  strike  up  Yankee  Doodle  Dandy ! 

A  newsboy  and  a  ])('anut-girl 

Like  little  Fauns  began  to  caper : 


His  hair  was  all  in  tangled  curl, 

Her  tawuy  legs  were  bare  anil  taper; 

And  still  the  gathering  larger  grew, 
Andgave  its  pence  and  ci'owded  nigher, 

While  aye  the  shepherd-minstrel  blew 
His  pipe,  and  struck  the  gamut  higher. 

0  heart  of  Nature,  beating  still 

With  throbs  her  vernal  passion  taught 
her,  — 
Even  here,  as  on  the  vine-clad  hill, 

Or  by  the  Arethusan  water ! 
New  forms  may  fold  the  speech,  new  lands 

Arise  within  these  ocean-portals, 
But  Music  waves  eternal  wands,  — 

Enchantress  of  the  souls  of  mortals ! 

So  thought  I, — but  among  us  trod 

A  man  in  blue,  with  legal  baton. 
And  scoffed  the  vagrant  demigod, 

And  pushed  him  from  the  step  I  sat  on. 
Doubting  I  mused  upon  the  cry, 

"Great  Tan  is  dead!" — and  all  the 
people 
Went  on  their  ways : — and  clear  and  high 

The  quarter  sounded  from  the  steeple. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES 
SWINBURNE. 

A  MATCH. 

If  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 
And  I  were  like  the  leaf. 

Our  lives  would  grow  together 

In  sad  or  singing  weather, 

Blown  fields  or  Howerful  closes. 
Green  pleasure  or  gray  grief; 

If  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 
And  I  were  like  the  leaf. 

If  I  were  what  the  words  are. 

And  love  were  like  the  tune, 
With  double  sound  and  single 
Delight  our  lips  would  mingle. 
With  kisses  glad  as  birds  are 

Tiiat  get  sweet  rain  at  noon ; 
If  I  were  what  the  words  are 
And  love  were  like  the  tune. 

If  you  were  life,  my  darling. 

And  I  your  love  were  death, 
We  'd  shine  and  snow  together 
Ere  March  made  sweet  the  weather 


E.   H.   STODDARD. 


•J.   T.   TROWBRIDGE. 


287 


With  daffodil  and  starling 
And  hours  of  fruitful  breath ; 

If  you  were  life,  my  darling, 
And  1  your  love  were  death. 

If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 

And  I  were  jiage  to  jo}% 
We  'd  play  for  lives  and  seasons, 
With  loving  looks  and  treasons, 
Ajid  tears  of  night  and  morrow, 

And  laughs  of  maid  and  boy; 
If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow. 

And  1  were  page  to  joy. 

If  you  were  April's  lady, 

And  I  were  lord  in  May, 
We  'd  throw  with  leaves  for  hours, 
And  draw  for  days  with  flowers. 
Till  day  like  night  were  shady, 

And  night  were  bright  like  day ; 
If  you  were  April's  lady, 
And  I  were  lord  in  May. 

If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 

And  I  were  king  of  pain, 
We  'd  hunt  dowTi  love  together. 
Pluck  out  his  flying-feather. 
And  teach  his  feet  a  measure. 
And  iind  his  mouth  a  rein ; 
If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 
And  I  were  king  of  pain. 


R  H.  STODDARD. 

[U.   S.   A.] 

NEVER  AGAIN. 

There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses, 

There  are  balms  for  all  our  pain  : 
But  when  youth,  the  dream,  departs, 
It  takes  something  from  our  hearts, 
And  it  never  comes  again. 

We  are  stronger,  and  are  better. 

Under  manhood's  sterner  reign : 
Still  we  feel  that  something  sweet 
Followed  youth,  with  flying  feet. 
And  will  never  come  again. 

Something  beautiful  is  vanished. 
And  we  sigh  for  it  in  vain  : 

We  seek  it  everywhere. 

On  the  earth  and  in  the  air. 
But  it  never  comes  again ! 


LANDWARD. 

The  sky  is  thick  upon  the  sea, 
The  sea  is  sown  with  rain, 

And  in  the  passing  gusts  we  hear 
The  clanging  of  the  crane. 

The  cranes  are  flying  to  the  south ; 

We  cut  the  northern  foam : 
The  dreary  land  they  leave  behind 

Must  be  our  future  home. 

Its  barren  shores  are  long  and  dark, 
And  gi'ay  its  autumn  sky ; 

But  better  these  than  this  gray  sea, 
If  but  to  land  —  and  die  ! 


NOVEMBER. 

The  wild  November  comes  at  last 

Beneath  a  veil  of  rain  ; 
The  night-wind  blows  its  folds  aside. 

Her  face  is  full  of  pain. 

The  latest  of  her  race,  she  takes 
The  Autumn's  vacant  throne  : 
She  has  but  one  short  moon  to  live, 
And  she  must  live  alone. 

A  barren  realm  of  withered  fields  : 
Bleak  woods  of  fallen  leaves : 

The  palest  morns  that  ever  dawned : 
The  dreariest  of  eves : 

It  is  no  wonder  that  she  comes. 
Poor  month  !  with  tears  of  pain : 

For  what  can  one  so  hopeless  do 
But  weep,  and  weep  again ! 


J.  T.  TROWBRIDGE. 

[U.   S.    A.] 

AT  SEA. 

The  night  was  made  for  cooling  shade, 

For  silence,  and  for  sleep ; 
And  when  I  was  a  child,  I  laid 
My  hands  upon  my  breast,  and  prayed. 

And  sank  to  slumbers  deep. 
Childlike,  as  then,  I  lie  to-night, 
And  watch  my  lonely  cabin-light. 


288 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Each  movpineiit  of  the  swaying  Lamp 

Shows  how  the  vessel  reels, 
And  o'er  her  deck  the  billows  tramp, 
And  all  her  timbers  strain  and  cramp 

With  every  shock  she  feels ; 
It  starts  and  shudders,  M'hile  it  burns, 
And  in  its  hinged  socket  turns. 

Now  swinging  slow,  and  slanting  low, 

It  almost  level  lies  : 
And  yet  I  know,  while  to  and  fro 
I  watch  the  seeming  pendule  go 

With  restless  fall  and  rise, 
The  steady  shaft  is  still  upright, 
Poising  its  little  globe  of  light. 

0  hand  of  God  !     0  lamp  of  peace  ! 
0  promise  of  my  soul ! 

Though  weak  and  tossed,  and  ill  at  ease 
Amid  the  roar  of  smiting  seas,  — 
The  ship's  convulsive  roll,  — 

1  own,  with  love  and  tender  awe, 
Yon  perfect  type  of  faith  and  law. 

A  heavenly  trust  my  spirit  calms,  — 
My  soul  is  filled  with  light ; 

Tlie  ocean  sings  his  solemn  psalms ; 

The  wild  winds  chant ;  I  cross  my  palms ; 
Happy,  as  if  to-night, 

Under  the  cottage  roof  again, 

I  heard  the  soothing  summer  rain. 


ELIZABETH    AKERS    ALLEN 
(ELOllENCE  rERCY). 

[U.    S.    A.] 

IN  THE  DEFENCES. 

AT   WASHINGTON. 

Along  the  ramparts  which  surround  the 
town 
I  walk  with  evening,  marking  all  the 
while 
How  night  and   autumn,  closing  softly 
down. 
Leave  on  the  land  a  blessing  and   a 
smile. 

In  the  broad  streets  the  sounds  of  tumult 
cease. 
The  gorgeous  sunset  reddens  roof  and 
spirc!, 


The  city  sinks  to  quietude  and  peace, 
Sleeping,  like  Saturn,  in  a  ring  of  fire ; 

Circled  with  forts,  whose  grim  and  threat- 
ening walls 
Frown  black  with  cannon,  whose  abated 
breath 
Waits  the  command  to  send  the  fatal  balls 
Upon  theirerrandsof  dismay  and  death. 

And  see,  directing,  guiding,  silently 
Flash  from  afar  the  mystic  signal-lights, 

As  gleamed  the  fiery  pillar  in  the  sky 
Leading  by  night  the  wandering  Israel- 
ites, 

The    earthworks,  draped   with   summer 
weeds  and  vines, 
The  ritle-[)its,  half  hid   with  tangled 
briers. 
But  wait  their  time ;  for  see,  along  the 
lines 
Else   the   faint  smokes  of   lonesome 
picket-fires, 

Where  sturdy  sentinels  on  silent  beat 
Cheat  the  long  hours  of  wakeful  lone- 
liness 
With  thoughts  of  home,  and  faces  dear 
and  sweet, 
And,  on  the  edge  of  danger,  dream  of 
bliss. 

Yetataword,  how  wildand  fierce  a  change 
Would  rend  and  startle  all  the  earth 
and  skies 
With  blinding  glare,  and  noises  dread 
and  strange, 
And  shrieks,  and  shouts,  and  deathly 
agonies. 

The  wide-mouthed  guns  would  war,  and 
hissing  sliclls 
Would  pierce  the  shuddering  sky  with 
fiery  thrills. 
The  battle  rage  and  roll  in  thunderous 
swells. 
And   war's  fierce  anguish  shake  the 
solid  hills. 

But  now  how  tranquilly  the  golden  gloom 
Creeps  up  the  gorgeous  forest-slopes, 
and  ilows 
Down  valleys   blue  with  fringy  aster- 
bloom, — 
An  atmosphere  of  safety  and  repose. 


EDNA   DEAN   PROCTOR. 


289 


Against  the  sunset  lie  the  daikeninghills, 
Mushroomed  with   tents,  the   sudden 
growth  of  war ; 
The  frosty  autumn  air,  that  blights  and 
eliills, 
Yet   brings  its  own   full   recompense 
therefor ; 

Eich  colors  light  the  leafy  solitudes. 

And  far  and  near  the  gazer's  eyes  behold 
The  oak's  deep  scarlet,  warming  all  the 
woods. 
And     spendthrift    maples    scattering 
their  gold. 

The  pale  beech  shivers  with  prophetic 
woe, 
The    towering   chestnut   ranks   stand 
blanched  and  thinned, 
Yet  still  the  fearless  sumach  dares  the  foe, 
And  waves  its  bloody  guidons  in  the 
wind. 

Where  mellow  haze  the  hill's  shai-p  out- 
line dims, 

Bareelms,  like  sentinels,  watch  silently, 
Tiie  delicate  tracery  of  their  slender  limbs 

Pencilled  in  purple  on  the  saffron  sky. 

Content  and  quietude  ami  plenty  seem 
Blessing  the  place,  and  sanctifying  all ; 

Aiulhark  !  how j)leasantlya_^hi(lden stream 
Sweetens  the  silence  with  its  silver  fall ! 

The  failing  grasshopper  chirps  faint  and 
shrill, 
The  cricket  calls,  in  massy  covert  hid. 
Cheery  and   loud,  as  stoutly  answering 
still 
The  soft  persistence  of  the  katydid. 

"With  dead  moths  tangled  in  its  blighted 
bloom, 
The  golden-rod  swings  lonesome  on  its 
throne, 
Forgotof  bees ;  and  in  thethicket'sgloom. 
The  last  belated  peewee  cries  alone. 

The  hum  of  voices,  and  the  careless  laugh 
Of  cheerful  talkers,  fall  upon  the  ear; 

The  flag  flaps  listlessly  adown  its  staff; 
And  still  the  katydid  pipes  loud  and 
near. 

And  now  from  far  the  bugle's   mellow 
throat 
Pours  out,  in  ri2:)pling  flow,  its  silver 
tide; 

19 


And  up  the  listening  hills  the  echoes  float 
Faint   and   more    faint    and    sweetly 
multiiilied. 

Peace  reigns ;  not  now  a  soft-eyed  nymph 
that  sleeps 
Unvexed  by  dreams  of  strife  or  con- 
queror. 
But  Power,  that,  open-eyed  and  watchful, 
keeps 
Unwearied  vigil  on  the  brink  of  war. 

Night  falls ;  in  silence  sleep  the  patriot 

bands ; 

The  tireless  cricket  yet  repeats  its  tune, 

And  the  still  figure  of  the  sentry  stands 

In  Ijlack  relief  against  the  low  lull 

moon. 


EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

OUR  HEROES. 

The  winds  that  once  the  Argo  bore 
Have  died  by  Neptune's  ruined  shrines. 
And  her  hull  is  the  drift  of  the  deep  sea 

floor, 
Though  shaped  of  Pelion's  tallest  pines. 
You  may  seek  her  crew  in  every  isle, 
Fair  in  the  foam  of  ^gean  seas, 
But  out  of  their  sleep  no  charm  can  wile 
Jason  and  Orpheus  and  Hercules. 

And  Priam's  voice  is  heard  no  more 
By  windy  Ilium's  sea-built  walls ; 
From  the  washing  wave  and  the  lonely 

shore 
No  wail  goes  up  as  Hector  falls. 
On  Ida's  mount  is  the  shining  snow, 
But  Jove  lias  gone  from  its  brow  away, 
And  red  on  the  plain  the  pop] lies  grow 
Where  Greek  and  Trojan  fought  that  day. 

Mother  Earth  !     Are  thy  heroes  dead? 
Do  they  thrill  the  soul  of  the  years  no 

more  ? 
Are  the  gleaming  snows  and  the  poppies 

red 
All  that  is  left  of  the  brave  of  yore  ? 
Are  there  none  to  fight  as  Theseus  fought, 
Far  in  the  young  world's  misty  dawn  ? 
Or  teach  as  tliegray-liaired  Nestor  taught, 
Mother  Earth !     Ai-e  thy  heroes  gone  ? 


290 


SONGS   OF  THREE  CENTUEIES. 


Gone? — in  a  nohler  form  tlioy  rise  ; 
Dead?— we  may  clasp  their  hands  in  ours, 
And  catch  the  light  of  their  glorious  eyes, 
And  wreathe  their  brows  with  immortal 

llowers. 
AVherever  a  noble  deed  is  done, 
Tliere  are  the  souls  of  our  heroes  stirred ; 
"Wherever  a  field  for  truth  is  won, 
Tliere  are  our  heroes'  voices  heard. 

Tlieir  armor  rings  on  a  fairer  field 

TImn  Greek  or  Trojan  ever  trod, 

For  Freedom's  sword  is  the  blade  they 

wield, 
And  the  light  above  them  the  smile  of 

God ! 
So,  in  his  isle  of  calm  delight, 
Jason  may  dream  the  years  away, 
But  the  heroes  live,  and  the  skies   are 

bright, 
And  the  world  is  a  braver  world  to-day 


GEORGE  H.  BOKER. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

DIRGE  FOR  A  SOLDIER, 

Close  his  eyes ;  his  work  is  done ! 

What  to  him  is  friend  or  foeman, 
Else  of  moon,  or  set  of  sun. 

Hand  of  man,  or  kiss  of  woman? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know : 
Lay  him  low ! 

As  man  may,  he  fought  his  fight, 

Proved  his  truth  by  his  endeavor; 
Let  him  sleej)  in  solemn  night. 
Sleep  forever  and  forever. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know : 
Lay  him  low ! 

Fold  him  in  his  country's  stars. 

Roll  the  drum  and  fire  the  volley ! 
What  to  him  are  all  our  wars, 

AVhat  but  death-liemocking  folly? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low. 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know : 
Lay  him  low ! 


Leave  him  to  God's  watching  eye. 

Trust  him  to  the  hand  that  made  him. 
Moital  love  weeps  idl}^  by : 

God  alone  has  power  to  aid  him. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow! 
What  cares  he?  he  cannot  know: 
Lay  him  low ! 


LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOULTOK 

[U.    S.    A.] 

THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  MEADOW. 

It  stands  in  a  sunny  meadow. 
The  house  so  mossy  and  brown. 

With  its  cumbrous  old  stone  chimneys, 
And  the  gray  roof  sloping  down. 

The  trees  fold  their  green  arms  round  it,  — 

The  trees  a  century  old ; 
And   the   winds   go   chanting   through 
them. 

And  the  sunbeams  drop  their  gold. 

The  cowslips  spring  in  the  marshes, 

The  roses  bloom  on  the  hill, 
And  beside  the  bi'ook  in  the  pasture 

The  herds  go  feeding  at  will. 

Within,  in  the  wide  old  kitchin, 

The  old  folks  sit  in  the  sun. 
That  creeps  through  the  sheltering  wood- 
bine. 

Till  the  day  is  almost  done. 

Their  children  have  gone  and  left  them ; 

They  sit  in  the  sun  alone ! 
And  the  old  wife's  ears  aie  failing 

As  she  harks  to  the  well-known  tone 

That  won  her  heart  in  her  girlhood, 
That  has  soothed  her  in  many  a  care, 

And  praises  her  now  for  the  brightness 
Her  old  face  used  to  wear. 

She  thinks  again  of  her  bridal,  — 
How,  dressed  in  her  robe  of  white, 

She  stood  by  her  gay  young  lover 
In  the  morning's  rosy  light. 

0,  the  morning  is  rosy  as  ever, 

But  the  rose  from  her  cheek  is  fled ; 


NOEA   PERRY. 


291 


Ami  the  snnsliine  still  is  golden, 
IJiit  it  falls  on  a  silvered  head. 

And  the  girlhood  dreams,  once  vanished. 
Come  back  in  her  winter-time, 

Till  her  feeble  jnilses  tremble 

With  the  thrill  of  spring-time's  prime. 

And  looking  forth  from  the  window, 
She  thinks  how  the  trees  have  grown 

Since,  clad  in  her  bridal  whiteness, 
She  crossed  the  old  door-stone. 

Though  dimmed  her  eyes*  bright  aznre, 
And  dimmed  her  hair's  young  gold. 

The  love  in  her  girlhood  plighted 
Has  never  grown  dim  or  old. 

They  sat  in  peace  in  the  sunshine 
Till  the  day  was  almost  done. 

And  then,  at  its  close,  an  angel 
Stole  over  the  threshold  stone. 

He  folded  their  hands  together,  — 
He  touched  their  eyelids  with  balm. 

And  their  last  breath  floated  outward. 
Like  the  close  of  a  solemn  psalm  ! 

Like  a  bridal  pair  they  traversed 

The  unseen,  mvstical  road 
That  leads  to  the' Beautiful  Cit.v, 

Whose  builder  and  maker  is  God. 

Perhaps  in  that  miracle  country 
They  will  give  her  lost  youth  back. 

And  the  floweis  of  the  vanished  spring- 
time 
Will  bloom  in  the  spirit's  track. 

One  draught  from  the  living  waters 
Shall  call  back  his  manhood's  prime ; 

And  eternal  years  shall  measure 
The  love  that  outlasted  time. 

But  the  shapes  that  they  left  behind  them. 
The  wrinkles  and  silver  hair,  — 

Wade  holy  to  us  by  the  kisses 
The  angel  had  printed  there,  — 

We  will  hide  away  'neatli  the  willows. 
When  the  day  is  low  in  tlie  west. 

Where  the  sunbeams  cannot  find  them. 
Nor  the  winds  disturb  their  rest. 

And  we  '11  suffer  no  telltale  tombstone, 
AVith  its  age  and  date,  to  rise 

O'er  the  two  who  are  old  no  longer, 
lu  the  Father's  house  iu  the  skies. 


THE  LATE  SPRING. 

She  stood  alone  amidst  the  April  fields,  — 
Brown,  sodden  fields,  all  desolate  and 
bare. 
"The  spring  is  late,"   she  said,    "the 
faithless  spring, 
That  should  have  come  to  make  the 
meadows  fair. 

"  Their  sweet  South  left  too  soon,  among 
the  trees 
The  bii-ds,  bewildered,  flutter  to  and 
fro  ; 
For  them  no  green  boughs  wait,  —  their 
memories 
Of  last  year's  April  had  deceived  them 
so." 

She   watched   the  homeless   birds,    the 
slow,  sad  spring. 
The  barren  fields,  and  shivering,  naked 
trees. 
"Thus  God  has  dealt  with  me,  his  child," 
she  said  ; 
"I  wait  my  spring-time,  and  am  cold 
like  these. 

"To  them  will  come  the  fulness  of  their 
time; 
Their  spring,  though  late,  will  make 
the  meadows  fair ; 
Shall  L  who  wait  like  them,  like  them 
be  blessed  ? 
I  am  His  own,  —  doth  not  my  Father 
care?" 


NORA  PERRY. 

[U.   S.   A.] 

IN  JUNE. 

So   sweet,  .so  sweet  the  roses   in   their 
blowing. 
So  sweet  the  daffodils,  so  fair  to  see ; 
So   blithe   and  gay  the    humming-bird 
agoing 
From  flower  to  flower,  a  hunting  with 
the  bee. 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  the   calling  of  the 
thrushes, 
The    calling,   cooing,   wooing,  every- 
where ; 


292 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


So  sweet  the  water's  song  through  reeds 
and  rushes, 
The   plover's   piping   note,  now  here, 
now  there. 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  from  off  the  fields  of 
clover. 
The  west-wind   blowing,  blowing   up 
the  hill; 
So  sweet,  so  sweet  with  news  of  some 
one's  lover, 
Fleet  footsteps,  ringing  nearer,  nearer 
still. 

So    near,   so    near,   now  listen,   listen, 
thrushes ; 
Kow  plover,  blackbird,  cease,  and  let 
me  hear ; 
Anil,  water,  hush  your  song  through  reeds 
and  rushes. 
That  I  may  know  whose  lover  cometh 
near. 

So  loud,  so  loud  the  thrushes  kept  their 
calling, 
Plover  or  blackbird  never  heeding  me ; 
So  loud  the  mill-stream  too  kept  fretting, 
falling. 
O'er  bar  and  bank,  in  brawling,  bois- 
terous glee. 

So  loud,  so  loud ;  yet  blackbird,  thrush, 
nor  plover. 
Nor  noisy  mill-stream,  in  its  fret  and 
fall, 
Could  drown  the  voice,  the  low  voice  of 
my  lover, 
]My  lover  calling  through  the  thrushes' 
call. 

"Come  down,  come  down!"  be  called, 
and  straight  the  thrushes. 
From  mate  to  mate  sang  all  at  once, 
"Come  down !" 
And  while  the  water  laughed  througli 
reeds  and  rushes, 
The    blackbird    chirped,    the    plover 
piped,  "Come  down!" 


AFTER  THE  BALL. 

They  sat  and  combed  their  beautiful  hair, 
Their  long,  bright  tresses,  one  by  one, 

As  they  laughed  and  talked  in  the  cham- 
ber there, 
After  the  revel  was  done. 

Idly  they  talked  of  waltz  and  quadrille, 
Idly  they  laughed,  like  other  girls, 

Who  over  the  fire,  when  all  is  still, 
Comb  out  their  braids  and  curls. 

Eobe  of  satin  and  Brussels  lace, 
Knots  of  flowers  and  ribbons,  too, 

Scattered  about  in  every  place. 
For  the  revel  is  through. 

And  IMaud  and  Madge  in  robes  of  white. 
The  prettiest  nightgowns  under  the  sun, 

Stockingless,  slippertess,  sit  in  the  night, 
For  tiie  revel  is  done,  — 

Sit  and  comb  their  beautiful  hair, 

Those  wonderful  waves  of  brown  and 
gold. 

Till  the  fire  is  out  in  the  chamber  there, 
And  the  little  bare  feet  are  cold. 

Then  out  of  the  gathering  winter  chill. 
All  out  of  the  bitter  St.  Agnes  weather. 

While  the  fire  is  out  and  the  hoirse  is  still, 
ilaud  and  Madge  together,  — 

Maud  and  Madge  in  robes  of  white, 

Theprettiestnightgownsundertliesun, 
Curtained  away  from  the  chilly  night. 
After  the  revel  is  done,  — 

Float  along  in  a  splendid  dream, 
To  a  golden  gittern's  tinkling  tune, 

While   a   thousand   lustres   shinuuering 
stream 
In  a  palace's  grand  saloon. 

Flashing  of  jewels  and  flutter  of  laces. 
Tropical  odors  sweeter  than  musk, 

Men  and  women  with  beautiful  faces. 
And  eyes  of  tropical  d'usk, — 


Then  down   and   off,  and   through  the 
fields  of  clover, 
I  followed,  followed,  at  my  lover's  call ; 
Listening  no  more  to  blackbird,  thrush, 
or  plover. 
The  water's  laugh,  the   mill-stream's 
fret  and  fall. 


And  one  face  shining  out  like  a  star. 
One  face  haunting  the  dreams  of  each. 

And  one  voice,  sweeter  than  others  are. 
Breaking  into  silvery  speecli,  — 

Telling,  through  lips  of  bearded  bloom. 
An  old,  old  story  over  again. 


G.   W.   TIIORNBURY. 


29: 


As  down  the  royal  Tbannered  room, 
To  the  gokleii  gitteru's  strain, 

Two  and  two,  they  dreamily  walk, 
While  an  unseen  spirit  walks  beside, 

And  all  unheard  in  the  loveis'  talk. 
He  claimeth  one  for  a  bride. 

0,  Maud  and  Madge,  dream  on  together. 
With  never  a  pang  of  jealous  fear! 

For,  ere  the  bitter  St.  Agnes  weather 
Shall  whiten  another  year, 

llobed  for  the  bridal,  and  robed  for  the 
tomb. 
Braided  brown  hair  and  golden  tress. 
There  '11  be  only  one  of  you  left  for  the 
bloom 
Of  the  bearded  lips  to  jiress,  — 

Only  one  for  the  bridal  pearls. 

The  robe  of  satin  and  Brussels  lace,  — 
Only  one  to  blush  through  her  curls 

At  the  sight  of  a  lover's  face. 

0  beautiful  Madge,  in  your  bridal  white, 
For  you  the  revel  has  just  begun  ; 

But  for  her  who  sleeps  in  your  arms  to- 
night 
The  revel  of  Life  is  done  ! 

But  robed  and  crowned  witli  your  saintly 
bliss, 

Queen  of  heaven  and  bride  of  the  sun, 
0  beautiful  Maud,  you  '11  never  miss 

The  kisses  another  hath  won  ! 


G.  W.  THORNBURY. 


THE  JESTER'S   SERMON. 

The  Jester  shook  his  head  and  bells,  and 

leaped  upon  a  chair, 
The  pages  laughed,  the  women  screamed, 

and  tossed  their  scented  hair; 
The  falcon  whistled,  staghounds  bayed, 

the  lapdog  barked  without, 
The  scullion  dropped  the  jiitcher  brown, 

the  cook  railed  at  the  lout ! 
The  steward,  counting  out  his  gold,  let 

pouch  and  money  fiill, 
And  why?  because  the  Jester  rose  to  say 

gi'ace  in  the  hall ! 


The  page  played  with  the  heron's  plume, 

the  steward  with  his  chain, 
The  butler  drummed  ujjou  the  board,  and 

laughed  with  might  and  main  ; 
The  grooms  beat  on  their  metal  cans,  and 

roared  till  tfiey  were  red. 
But  still  the  Jester  shut  his  eyes  and 

rolled  his  witty  head; 
And  when  they  grew  a  little  still,  read 

half  a  yard  of  text. 
And,  waving  hand,  struck  on  the  desk, 

then  frowned  like  one  perplexed. 

"Dear    sinners    all,"   the    fool    began, 

"man's  life  is  but  a  jest, 
A  dream,  a  shadow,  bubble,  air,  a  A^apor 

at  the  best, 
In  a  thousand  pounds  of  law  I  find  not 

a  single  ounce  of  love ; 
A  blind  man  killed  the  jiarson's  cow  in 

shooting  at  the  dove  ; 
The  fool  that  eats  till  he  is  sick  must 

fast  till  he  is  well ; 
The  wooer  who  can  Hatter  most  will  bear 

away  the  belle. 

"Let  no  man  halloo  he  is  safe  till  he  is 

through  the  wood ; 
He  who  will  not  when  he  may,  must 

tarry  when  he  should  ; 
He  who  laughs  at  crooked  men  should 

need  walk  very  straight ; 
0,  he  who  once  has  won  a  name  may  lie 

abed  till  eight ! 
Make  haste  to  purchase  house  and  land, 

be  very  slow  to  wed ; 
True  coral  needs  no  painter's  brush,  nor 

need  be  daubed  with  red. 


"The  fnar,  preaching,  cursed  the  thief 

(the  pudding  in  his  sleeve), 
To  fish  for  sprats  with  golden  hooks  is 

foolish,  by  your  leave,  — 
To  travel  well,  — an  ass's  ears,  ape's  face, 

hog's  mouth,  and  ostrich  legs. 
He  does  not  care  a  pin  for  thieves  who 

limps  about  and  begs. 
Be  always  first  man  at  a  feast  and  last 

man  at  a  fray ; 
The  short  way  round,  in  spite  of  all,  is 

still  the  longest  way. 
When  the  hungry  curate  licks  the  knife, 

there  's  not  much  for  the  clerk  ; 
AVhen  the  pilot,  turning  pale  and  sick, 

looks  up,  — the  storm  grows  dark." 


294 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Then  loud  they  laughed,  the  fat  cook's 

tears  ran  down  into  the  pan : 
The  steward  .shook,  that  he  was  forced 

to  drop  the  brimming  can ; 
And  then  again  the  women  screamed, 

and  every  staghound  bayed, — 
And  why?  because  the  motley  fool  so 

wise  a  sermon  made. 


ANNIE  FIELDS. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

CLIMBING. 

He  said,  "0  brother,  where  's  the  use  of 
climbing  ? 

Come  rather  to  the  shade  beside  me 
here, 

And  break  the  bread,  and  pour  the  plen- 
teous wine ! 

"Why  thus   forever   climbing   one  sad 

way? 
Rather  burn  cedar  on  the  marble  hearth. 
And  sleep,  and  wake,  and  hear  the  singers 

pass. 

"Come!  Stay  thy  feet,  and  pant  and 
climb  no  more ! 

Stay  Jollity,  stay  Wit,  and  Grace,  and 
Ease, 

Nor  spend  your  strength  of  days  in  scal- 
ing heights !" 

But  Wit  had  clomb  full  well,  and  passed 

beyond, 
While  he  who  stayed,  cried,  "Brother, 

where  's  the  use?" 
And    Jollity   went  mingling  with    the 

sad, 

Still   passing  onward,  up   the   difTicult 

road. 
While  Grace  accompanied,  — and  all,  but 

Ease; 
And  Eas(!  and  he  two  dull  companions 

made. 

Forever  after  said  he  not,  "What  use  !" 
(irewweary  of  sweet  cedar  and  soft  coudi ; 
And  wistful  gazed  to  watch  those  climb- 
ing feet. 


HELEN  HUNT. 

[U.    3.    A.] 

CORONATION. 

At  the  king's  gate  the  subtle  noon 
Wove  tilmy  yellow  nets  of  sun ; 

Into  the  drowsy  snare  too  soon 
The  guards  fell  one  by  one. 

Through  the  king's  gate,  unquestioned 
then, 
A   beggar  went,  and  laughed,  "This 
brings 
Me  chance,  at  last,  to  see  if  men 
Fare  better,  beiug  kings." 

The  king  sat  bowed  beneath  his  crown, 
Propping  his  face  with  listless  hand ; 

Watching  the  hour-glass  sifting  down 
Too  slow  its  shining  sand. 

' '  Poor  man,  what  wouldst  thou  have  of 
me?" 

The  beggar  turned,  and,  pitying. 
Replied,  hke  one  in  a  dream,  "Of  thee, 

Nothing.     I  want  the  king." 

Uprose  the  king,  and  from  his  head 
Shook  off  the  crown  and  tlirew  it  by. 

"Oman,  thou  must  have  known,"  he  said, 
"A  greater  king  than  I !" 

Through  all  the  gates,  unquestioned  then, 
AVent  king  and  beggar  liand  in  hand. 

Whispered  the  king,  "Shall  1  know  when 
Before  his  throne  I  stand?  ' 

The  beggar  laughed.  Free  winds  in  haste 
Were  wiping  from  the  king's  hot  brow 

The  crim.son  lines  the  crown  had  traced. 
"This  is  his  presence  now." 

At  the  king's  gate,  the  crafty  noon 
Unwove  its  yellow  nets  of  sun ; 

Out  of  their  sleep  in  terror  soon 
The  guards  waked  one  by  one. 

"Ho  here  !  Ho  there !  Has  no  man  seen 
The  king?"    The  cry  ran  to  and  fro; 

Beggar  and  king,  they  laughed,  I  ween. 
The  laugh  that  free  men  know. 

On  the  king's  gate  the  moss  grew  gray: 
The  king  came  not.     They  called  him 
dead  ; 

And  made  liis  elde.st  .son  one  day 
Slave  in  his  father's  stead. 


DANTE   GABKIEL  ROSSETTI.  —  CELIA  THAXTER. 


295 


THE  WAY  TO  SING.  I 

The  birds  must  know.    AVho  wisely  sings 

Will  sing  as  they; 
The  common  air  has  generous  wings, 

Songs  make  their  way. 
No  messenger  to  run  before, 

Devising  plan ; 
Ko  mention  of  the  place  or  hour 

To  any  man ; 
No  waiting  till  some  sound  betrays 

A  listening  ear ; 
No  different  voice,  no  new  delays, 

If  steps  draw  near. 

•'What  bird  is  that?     Its  song  is  good." 

And  eager  eyes 
Go  peering  through  the  dusky  wood, 

In  glad  surprise ; 
Then  late  at  night,  when  by  his  fire 

The  traveller  sits, 
Watching  the  flame  grow  brighter,  higher, 

The  sweet  song  flits 
By  snatches  through  his  weary  brain 

To  help  him  rest ; 
When  next  he  goes  that  road  again. 

An  emjjty  nest 
On  leafless  bough  will  make  him  sigh, 

"Ah  me!  last  spring 
Just  here  I  heard,  in  passing  by, 

That  rare  bird  sing!" 

But  while  he  sighs,  remembering 

How  sweet  the  song. 
The  little  bird,  on  tireless  wing. 

Is  borne  along 
In  other  air,  and  other  men 

With  weary  feet, 
On  other  roads,  the  simple  strain 

Are  finding  sweet. 
The  birds  must  know.     W^ho  wisely  sings 

Will  sing  as  they ; 
The  common  air  has  generous  wings, 

Songs  make  their  way. 


Is  the  era's  end.     Our  sight  may  pass 
No  furlong  farther.     Since  time  was. 
This  sound  iiath  told  the  lapse  of  time. 

No  quiet  which  is  death's,  —  it  hath 
The  mournfulness  of  ancient  life, 
Enduring  always  at  dull  strife. 

As  the  woi-ld's  heart  of  rest  and  wrath, 
Its  painful  pulse  is  on  the  sands. 
Lost  utterly,  the  whole  sky  stands 

Gray  and  not  known  along  its  path. 

Listen  alone  beside  the  sea. 

Listen  alone  among  the  woods ; 

Those  voices  of  twin  solitudes 
Shall  have  one  sound  alike  to  thee. 

Hark  where  the  murmurs  of  thronged 
men 

Surge  and  sink  back  and  surge  again,  — 
Still  the  one  voice  of  wave  and  tree. 

Gather  a  shell  from  the  strewn  beach, 
And  listen  at  its  lips ;  they  sigh 
The  same  desire  and  mystery. 

The  echo  of  the  whole  sea's  speech. 
And  all  mankind  is  thus  at  heart 
Not  anything  but  what  thou  art ; 

And  earth,  sea,  man,  are  all  in  each. 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI. 

THE   SEA-LIMITS. 

CoxsiDEU  the  sea's  listless  chime ; 
Time's  self  it  is  made  audible,  — 
The  murmur  of  the  earth's  own  shell. 

Secret  continuance  sublime 


CELIA  THAXTER. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

A  SUMMER  DAT. 

At  daybreak  in  the  fresh  light,  joyfully 
The  fishermen  drew  in  their  laden  net ; 

The  shore  shone  rosy  purple,  and  the  sea 
Was  streaked  with  violet. 

And  pink  with  sunrise,  many  a  shadowy 
sail 
Lay  southward,  lighting  up  the  sleep- 
ing bay ; 
And  in  the  west  the  white  moon,  still  and 
pale, 
Faded  before  the  day. 

Silence  was  everywhere.     The  rising  tide 
Slowly  filled  every  cove  and  inlet  small ; 

A  musical  low  whisper,  nmltiplied. 
You  heard,  and  that  was  all. 


296 


SONGS   OF  TIIEEE   CENTUEIES. 


No  clourls  at  cla^vn,  but  as  the  sim  climbed 
higher, 
White  I'ohnnns,  thunderous,  splendid, 
up  the  .sky 
Floated  and  stood,  heaped  in  his  steady 
fire, 
A  stately  company. 

Stealing  along  the  coast  from  cape  to  cape 
The  weird  mirage  crept  tremulously  on. 

In  many  a  magic  change  and  wondrous 
shape, 
Throbbing  beneath  the  sun. 

At  noon  the  wind  rose,  swept  the  glassy 
sea 
To  sudden  ripple,  thrust  against  the 
clouds 
A  strenuous  shoulder,  gathering  steadily 
Drove  them  before  in  crowds ; 

Till  all  the  west  was  dark,  and  iidvy  black 
The  level-rutlled  water  underneath, 

Andup  the  wind-cloud  tossed, — aghostly 
rack,  — 
In  many  a  ragged  wreath. 

Tlien  sudden  roared  the  thunder,  a  great 
peal 
Magnificent,  that    broke    and    rolled 
away ; 
And  down  the  wind  plunged,  like  a  furi- 
ous keel, 
Cleaving  the  sea  to  spray ; 

And  brouglit  the  rain  sweeping  o'er  land 
and  sea. 
And   then    was    tumult !      Lightning 
sharp  and  keen. 
Thunder,  wind,  rain, — a  mighty  jubilee 
The  heaven  and  eartli  between  ! 

Loud  the  roused  ocean  sang,  a  chorus 
grand ; 

A  solemn  music  rolled  in  undertone 
Of  waves  that  broke  about  on  either  hand 

The  little  island  lone; 

"VVliere,  joyful  in  his  tempest  as  his  calm, 
Held  in  tlie  hollow  of  that  hand  of  liis, 

I  joined  with  heart  and  soul  in  God's 
great  ])sahn. 
Thrilled  with  a  nameless  bliss. 

Soon  lulled  the  wind,  tlie  summer  storm 
soon  died ; 
The  shatt(M-ed  clouds  went  eastward, 
drifting  slow ; 


From  the  low  sun  the  rain -fringe  swept 
aside, 
Bright  in  his  rosy  glow, 

And  wide  a  splendor  streamed  through 
all  the  sky ; 
O'er  sea  and  land  one  soft,  delicious 
blush, 
That   touched   the   gray   rocks  lightly, 
tender!)^ ; 
A  transitory  flush. 

Warm,  odorous  gusts  blew  off  the  distant 
land, 
With  sjiice  of  pine-woods,  breath  of  hay 
new-mown. 
O'er  miles  of  waves  and  sea-scents  cool 
and  bland, 
Full  in  our  faces  blown. 

Slow  faded  the  sweet  light,  and  peacefully 
The  quiet  stars  came  out,  one  after  one  : 

The  holy  twilight  fell  upon  the  sea, 
The  summer  day  was  done. 

Such  unalloyed   delight  its  hours  had 
given, 
Musing,  this  thought  rose  in  my  grate- 
ful mind, 
That  God,  who  watches  all  things,  up  in 
heaven. 
With  patient  eyes  and  kind. 

Saw  and  was  pleased,  perhaps,  one  child 
of  his 
Dared  to  be  happy  like  the  little  birds, 
Because  He  gave  his  children  days  like 
this, 
Rejoicing  beyond  words ; 

Dared,  lifting  up  to  Him  untroubled  eyes 
Ingratitude  that  worshijj  is,  andprayei', 

Sing  and  be  glad  with  ever  new  surprise, 
He  made  his  world  so  fair ! 


SUBMISSION. 

The  sparrow  sits  and  sings,  and  sings ; 

Softly  the  sunset's  lingering  light 
Lies  rosy  over  rock  and  turf. 
And  reddens  where  the  restless  surf 

Tosses  on  high  its  plumes  of  white. 

Gently  and  clear  the  sparrow  sings. 
While  twilight  steals  across  the  sea. 


WILLIAM  MOERIS.  —  HARRIET   McEWEN  KIMBALL. 


297 


And  still  and  bright  the  evening  star 
Twinkles  above  the  golden  bar 
That  in  the  west  lies  quietly. 

0,  steadfastly  the  sparrow  sings, 

And  sweet  the  sound ;  and  sweet  the 
touch 
Of  wooing  winds ;  and  sweet  the  sight 
Of  happy  Nature's  deep  delight 
In  her  fair  spring,  desired  so  much  ! 

But  while  so  clear  the  sparrow  sings 
A  cry  of  death  is  in  my  ear ; 

The  crashing  of  the  riven  wreck, 
Breakers  that  sweep  the  shuddering 
deck, 
And  sounds  of  agony  and  fear. 

How  is  it  that  the  birds  can  sing? 
Life  is  so  full  of  bitter  pain  ; 

Hearts  are  so  wrung  with  hopeless 

grief; 
Woe  is  so  long  and  joy  so  brief; 
Nor  shall  the  lost  retiu'n  again. 

Though  rapturously  the  sparrow  sings, 
No  bliss  of  Nature  can  restore 

The  friends  whose  hands  I  clasped 

so  warm. 
Sweet  souls  that  through  the  night 
and  storm 
Fled  from  the  earth  forevermore. 

Yet  still  the  sparrow  sits  and  sings, 
Till  longing,  mourning,  soriowinglove, 
Groping  to  find  what  hope  may  be 
Within  death's  awful  mystery. 
Reaches  its  empty  arms  above ; 

And  listening,  while  the  sparrow  sings. 
And  soft  the  evening  shadows  fall. 
Sees,   through   the   crowding  tears 

that  blind, 
A  little  light,  and  seems  to  find 
And  clasp  God's  hand,  who  wrought  it 
all. 


WILLIAM  MOEEIS. 


MARCH. 


Slater  of  winter,  art  thou  here  again  ? 
0  welcome,  thou  that  briug'st  the  sum- 
mer nigh ! 


The  bitter  wind  makes  not  thy  victory 

vain. 
Nor  will  we  mock  thee  for  thy  faint  blue 

sky. 
Welcome,  0  March !  whose  kindly  days 

and  dry 
Make  April  ready  for  the  throstle's  song. 
Thou  first  redresser  of  the  winter's  wrong ! 

Yea,  welcome,  March !  and  though  I  die 

ere  June, 
Yet  for  the  hope  of  life  I  give  thee  praise, 
Striving  to  swell  the  burden  of  the  tune 
That  even  now  I  hear  thy  brown  birds 

raise. 
Unmindful  of  the  past  or  coming  days ; 
Who  sing,  "0  joy  !  a  new  year  is  begun  ! 
What  happiness  to  look  upon  the  sun  !" 

0,  what  begetteth  all  this  storm  of  ^bliss. 
But  Death  himself,  wlio,  crying  solemnly. 
Even  from  the  heart  of  sweet  Forgetful- 

ness, 
Bids  us,  "Rejoice !  lest  pleasureless yedie. 
Within  a  little  time  must  ye  go  by. 
Stretch  forth  your  open  hands,  and,  while 

ye  live, 
Take  all  the  gifts  that  Death  and  Life 

may  give"? 


HARPtlET  McEWEN  KIMBALL. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

THE  CRICKETS. 

Pipe,  little  minstrels  of  the  waning  year. 

In  gentle  concert  pipe ! 
Pipe  the  warm  noons ;  the  mellow  har- 
vest near ; 

The  apples  dropping  ripe ; 

The  tempered  sunshine,  and  the  softened 
shade ; 
The  trill  of  lonely  bird  ; 
The  sweet,  sad  hush  on  Nature's  glad- 
ness laid ; 
The  sounds  through  silence  heard  ! 

Pipe  tenderly  the  passing  of  the  year ; 

The  sunnner's  brief  reprieve ; 
The  dry  husk  i-ustling  round  the  yellow 
ear; 

The  chill  of  morn  and  eve ! 


298 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTUEIES. 


Pipe  the  iintroublod  trouble  of  tlie  year ; 

Pipe  low  the  painless  pain  ; 
Pipe  your  uneeasing  melancholy  cheer; 

The  year  is  in  the  wane. 


ALL'S  WELL. 

The  day  is  ended.     Ere  I  sink  to  sleep, 
My  weary  spirit  seeks  repose  in  thine ; 
Father  !  forgive  my  trespasses,  and  keep 
This  little  life  of  mine. 


AVith  loving-kindness  curtain  thou  my 
bed, 
And  cool  in  rest  my  burning  pilgrim 
feet ; 
Thy  pardon  be  the  pillow  for  my  head, — 
So  shall  my  sleep  be  sweet. 

At  peace  with  all  the  world,  dear  Lord, 
and  thee, 
No  fears  my  soul's  unwavering  faith 
can  shake ; 
All 's  well,  whichever  side  the  grave  for 
me 
The  morning  light  may  break  ! 


HARRIET  W.  PRESTON. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

THE  SURVIVORS. 

In  tliis  sad  hour,  so  still,  so  late. 

When  Howers  are  dead,  and  birds  are 
flown. 

Close-sheltered  from  the  blasts  of  Fate, 
Our  little  love  burns  brightly  on, 

Amid  the  wrecks  of  dear  desire 

That  ride  the  waves  of  life  no  more ; 

As  stranded  voyagers  light  their  hre 
Upon  a  lonely  islauil  shore. 

And  though  we  deem  that  soft  and  fair, 
Heyoiid  tlie  tempest  and  the  sea. 

Our  lieart's  true  homes  are  smiling,  where 
In  life  we  never  more  shall  be,  — 


Yet  we  are  saved,  and  we  may  rest ; 

And,  hearing  each  the  other's  voice, 
We  cannot  hoUl  ourselves  uublest. 

Although  we  may  not  quite  rejoice. 

We  '11  warm  our  hearts,  and  softly  sing 
Thanks  for  the  shore  whereon  we  're 
driven ; 
Storm-tossed  no  more,   we  '11   fold   the 
wing, 
And  dream  forgotten  dreams  of  heaven. 


HIRAM  RICH. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

nf  THE  SEA. 

The  salt  wind  blows  upon  my  cheek, 

As  it  blew  a  year  ago. 
When  twenty  boats  were  crushed  among 

The  rocks  of  Norman's  Woe. 
'T  was  dark  then ;  't  is  light  now. 

And  the  sails  are  leaning  low. 

In  dreams,  I  pull  the  sea-weed  o'er, 

And  find  a  face  not  his, 
And  hojie  another  tide  will  be 

More  pitying  than  this  : 
The  wind  turns,  the  tide  turns,  — 

Tliey  take  what  hope  there  is. 

My  life  goes  on  as  life  must  go, 
With  all  its  sweetness  spilled : 

My  God,  why  should  one  heart  of  two 
Beat  on,  when  one  is  stilled  ? 

Through  heart- wreck,  or  home-wreck. 
Thy  happy  sparrows  build. 

Though  boats  go  down,  men  build  again 

Whatever  wind  may  blow ; 
If  blight  be  in  the  wheat  one  year, 

They  trust  again,  and  sow. 
The  grief  comes,  the  change  comes, 

The  tides  run  high  or  low. 

Some  have  their  dead,  where,  sweet  and 
calm. 

The  summers  bloom  and  go ; 
Tlic  sea  withholds  my  dead, — -I  walk 

The  bar  when  tides  an;  low, 
And  W07i(l(;r  how  the  grave-grass 

Can  have  the  heart  to  grow  ! 


FEANCIS   BEET  HAETE. 


299 


Flow  on,  0  unconsenting  sea, 
And  keep  luy  dead  below ; 

The  liight-watch  set  for  ine  is  long. 
But,  through  it  all,  I  know, 

Oi'  life  comes  or  death  comes, 
God  leads  the  eternal  flow. 


FEANCIS  BEET  HAETE. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

CONCHA. 

PEESIDIO  DE  SAN  FRANCISCO. 

1800. 


Looking  .seaward,  o'er  the  sand-hills 
stands  the  fortress,  old  and  quaint, 

By  the  San  Francisco  friars  lifted  to  their 
patron  saint,  — ■ 

Sponsor  to  that  wondrous  city,  now  apos- 
tate to  the  creed, 

On  whose  youthful  walls  the  Padre  saw 
the  angel's  golden  reed ; 

All  its  trophies  long  since  scattered,  all 
its  blazon  brushed  away. 

And  the  flag  that  flies  above  it  but  a 
triumph  of  to-day. 

Never  scar  of  siege  or  battle  challenges 

the  wandering  eye,  — 
Never  breach  of  warlike  onset  holds  the 

curious  passer-by ; 

Only  one  sweet  human  fancy  interweaves 

its  threads  of  gold 
"With  the  plain  ajid  homespun  present, 

and  a  love  that  ne'er  grows  old ; 

Only  one  thing  holds  its  crumbling  walls 
above  the  meaner  dust, — 

Listen  to  the  simple  story  of  a  woman's 
love  and  tnist. 


Count  von  Eesanoff,  the  Eussian,  envoy 

of  the  mighty  Czar, 
Stood  beside  the  deep  embrasures  where 

the  brazen  cannon  are. 


He  with  grave  provincial  magnates  long 

had  held  serene  debate 
On  the  Treaty  of  Alliance  and  the  high 

affairs  of  state ; 

He,  from  grave  provincial  magnates,  oft 
had  turned  to  talk  apart 

With  the  Comandante's  daughter,  on  the 
questions  of  the  heart, 

Until  points  of  gravest  import   yielded 

slowly,  one  by  one, 
And  by  Love   was   consummated   what 

Diplomacy  begun ; 

Till  beside  the  deep  embrasures,  where 

the  brazen  cannon  are. 
He    received   the   twofold   contract   for 

approval  of  the  Czar ; 

Till  beside  the  brazen  cannon  the  be- 
trothed bade  adieu. 

And,  from  sally-poit  and  gateway,  north 
the  Eussian  eagles  flew. 


Long  beside  the  deep  embrasures,  where 

the  brazen  cannon  are, 
Did  they  wait  the  promised  bndegroom 

and  the  answer  of  the  Czar ; 

Day  by  day  on  wall  and  bastion  beat  the 
hollow  empty  breeze,  — 

Day  by  day  the  sunlight  glittered  on  the 
vacant,  smiling  seas; 

Week  by  week  the  near  hills  whitened 
in  their  dusty  leather  cloaks,  — 

Week  by  week  the  far  hills  darkened 
from  the  fringing  plain  of  oaks ; 

Till  the  rains  came,  and  far-breaking,  on 
the  fierce  southwester  tost. 

Dashed  the  whole  long  coast  with  color, 
and  then  vanished  and  were  lost. 

So  each  year  the  seasons  shifted ;  wet  and 
warm  and  drear  and  dry; 

Half  a  year  of  clouds  and  flowers,  — half 
a  year  of  dust  and  sky. 

Still  it  brought  no  ship  nor  message, — 
brought  no  tidings  ill  nor  meet 

For  the  statesmanlike  Commander,  for 
the  daughter  fair  and  sweet. 


500 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


Yet  she  lioard  the  varying  message, 
voiceless  to  all  ears  beside : 

"He  will  come,"  the  ilowers  whispered; 
"Come  no  more,"  the  dry  hills 
sighed. 

Still  she  found  him  with  the  waters  lifted 
by  the  morning  breeze,  — 

Still  she  lost  him  with  the  folding  of  the 
great  white-tented  seas ; 

Until  hollows  chased  the  dimples  from 
her  cheeks  of  olive  brown, 

And  at  times  aswift,  shy  moisture  dragged 
the  long  sweet  lashes  down ; 

Or  the  small  mouth  curved  and  quivered 
as  for  some  denied  caress, 

And  the  fair  young  brow  was  knitted  in 
an  infantine  distress. 

Then  the  grim  Commander,  pacing  where 

the  brazen  cannon  are, 
Comforted  the    maid   with    proverbs, — 

wisdom  gathered  from  afar ; 

Bits  of  ancient  observation  by  his  fathers 

garnered,  each 
As  a  pebble  worn  and  polished  in  the 

current  of  his  speech : 

"  'Those  who  wait  the  coming  rider  travel 

twice  as  far  as  he ' ; 
'Tired  wench  and  coming  butter  never 

did  in  time  agree. ' 

'"He  that  getteth  himself  honey,  though 
a  clown,  he  shall  have  flics'  ; 

'In  the  end  God  grinds  the  miller' ;  'In 
the  dark  the  mole  has  eyes.' 

'"He  whose  father  is  Alcalde,  of  his  trial 

liath  no  fear,'  — 
And  be  sure  the  Count  has  reasons  that 

will  make  his  conduct  clear." 

Then  the  voice  sententious  faltered,  and 
the  wisdom  it  would  teach 

Lost  itself  in  fondtist  trifles  of  his  soft 
Castilian  speech ; 

And  on  "Concha,"  "Conrhititn,"  and 
"Conehita,"  lie  would  dwell 

With  the  fond  reiteration  which  the 
Spaniard  knows  so  well. 


So  with  proverbs  and  caresses,  half  m 
faith  and  half  in  doubt, 

Everv  day  some  hope  was  kindled,  flick- 
ered, faded,  and  went  out. 


Yearly,  down  the  hillside  sweeping,  came 
the  stately  cavalcade. 

Bringing  revel  to  va(piero,  joy  and  com- 
fort to  each  maid ; 

Bringing  days  of  formal  visit,  social  feast 
and  rustic  sport ; 

Of  bull-baiting  on  the  plaza,  of  love- 
making  in  the  court. 


Vainly  then  at  Concha's  lattice,  — vainly 

as  the  idle  wind 
Eose  the  thin  high  Spanish  tenor  that 

bespoke  the  youth  too  kind ; 

Vainly,  leaning  from  their  saddles,  ca- 

balleros,  bold  and  fleet, 
Plucked  for  her  the  buried  chicken  from 

beneath  their  mustang's  feet ; 

So  in  vain  the  barren  hillsides  with  their 

gay  serapes  blazed. 
Blazed  and  vanished  in  the  dust-cloiid 

that  their  flying  hoofs  had  raised. 

Then  the  drum  called  from  the  rampart, 
and  once  more  with  patient  mien 

The  Commander  and  his  daughter  each 
took  up  the  dull  routine,  — 

Each  took  up  the  petty  duties  of  a  life 

apart  and  lone, 
Till  the  slow  years  wrought  a  music  in 

its  dreary  monotone. 


Forty  years  on  wall  and  bastion  swept 

the  hollow  idle  breeze, 
Since  the  Russian  eagle  fluttered   from 

the  California  seas. 

Forty  years  on  wall  and  bastion  wrought 
its  slow  but  sure  decay; 

And  St.  (Icoi-ge's  cross  was  lifted  in  the 
port  of  Monterey. 


FEANCIS   BEET   IIARTE. 


501 


And  the  citadel  was  lighted,  and  the  hall 

was  gayly  drest, 
All  to  honor  Sir  George  Simpson,  famous 

traveller  and  guest. 

Far  and  near  the  people  gathered  to  the 

costly  banquet  set, 
And  exchanged  congratulation  with  the 

English  baronet; 

Till  the  formal  speeches  ended,  and 
amidst  the  laugh  and  wine 

Some  one  spoke  of  Concha's  lover, — 
heedless  of  the  warning  sign. 

Quickly  then  cried  Sir  George  Simpson  : 
"Speak  no  ill  of  him,  I  pray. 

He  is  dead.  He  died,  poor  fellow,  forty 
years  ago  this  day. 

"Died  while  speeding  home  to  Eussia, 
falling  from  a  fractious  horse. 

Left  a  sweetheart  too,  they  tell  me. 
Jklarried,  I  suppose,  of  course ! 

"Lives  she  }'et  ?  "  A  death-like  silence 
fell  on  banquet,  guests,  and  hall, 

And  a  trembling  iigure  rising  fixed  the 
awe-struck  gaze  of  all. 

Two  black  eyes  in  darkened  orbits  gleamed 
beneath  the  nun's  white  hood ; 

Black  serge  hid  the  wasted  figure,  bowed 
and  stricken  where  it  stood. 

"Lives  she  yet?"  Sir  George  repeated. 

All  were  hushed  as  Concha  drew 
Closer  yet   her  nun's  attire.      "Senor, 

pardon,  she  died  too ! " 


DICKENS  m  CAMP. 

Above  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly 
drifting, 

The  river  sang  below ; 
The  dim  Sierras,  far  beyond,  uplifting 

Their  minarets  of  snow. 

The  roaring  camp-fire,  with  rude  humor, 
painted 
The  ruddy  tints  of  health 
On  haggard  face,  and  form  that  drooped 
and  fainted 
In  the  tierce  race  for  wealth  ; 


Till  one  arose,  and  from  his  pack's  scant 
treasure 
A  hoarded  volume  drew. 
And  cards  were  dropped  from  hands  of 
listless  leisure 
To  hear  the  tale  anew ; 

And  then,  while  round  them   shadows 
gathered  faster. 
And  as  the  firelight  fell, 
He  read   aloud   the   book   wherein   the 
Master 
Had  writ  of  "Little  Nell." 

Perhaps  'twas  bojdsh  fancy, — for  the 
reader 
"VVas  youngest  of  them  all,  — 
But,  as  he  read,  from  clustering  pine  and 
cedar 
A  silence  seemed  to  fall ; 

The    fir-trees,    gathering   closer  in   the 
shadows. 
Listened  in  every  spray. 
While  tlie  wliole  cam]),  with  "  Kell  "  on 
English  meadows, 
Wandered  and  lost  then-  waj'. 

And  so  in  mountain  solitudes  —  o'ertaken 
As  by  some  spell  divine  — 

Their  cares  dropped  from  them  like  the 
needles  shaken 
From  out  the  gusty  pine. 

Lost  is  that  camp,  and  wasted  all  its  fire  : 
And  he  who  wrought  that  s]u41  ? 

Ah,  towering  pine,  and  stately  Kentish 
spire. 
Ye  have  one  tale  to  tell ! 

Lost  is  that  camp !  but  let  its  fragrant 
story 
Blend  with  the  breath  that  thrills 
With  hop-vines'  incense  all  the  pensive 
glorv 
That  fills  the  Kentish  hills. 

And  on  that  grave  where  English   oak 
and  holly 
And  laurel  wreaths  entwine. 
Deem    it   not   all   a  too   presumptuous 
folly,- 
This  spray  of  Western  pine  ! 


102 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


ANNIE  D.  GREEN  (MAPJAN 
DOUGLAS). 

[U.   S.    A.] 

THE  PURITAN  LOVERS. 

Drawn  out,  like  lingering  bees,  to  share 
The  last,  sweet  sunnner  weather, 

Beneath  the  retklening  maples  walked 
Two  Puritans  together,  — 

A  youth  and  maiden,  heeding  not 

The  woods  which  round  them  bright- 
ened, 

Just  conscious  of  each  other's  thoughts, 
Half  happy  and  half  frightened. 

Grave  were  their  brows,   and  few  their 
woi  ds, 

And  coarse  their  garb  and  simple; 
The  maiden's  very  clieek  seemed  shy 

To  own  its  worldly  dimple. 

For  stern  the  time;    they   dwelt   with 
( "are ; 

And  Fear  was  oft  a  comer  ; 
A  s(>l)er  April  ushered  in 

The  Pilgrim's  toilful  summer. 

And  stern  their  creed  ;  they  tarried  here 
Mere  desert-land  sojourners : 

They  must  not  dream  of  mirth  or  rest, 
God's  humble  lesson-learners. 

The  temple's  sacred  perfume  round 
Their  week-day  robes  was  clinging  ; 

Their  mirth  was  but  the  golden  bells 
On  priestly  garments  ringing. 

But  as  to-day  they  softly  talked, 
Tliat  serious  youth  and  maiden. 

Their  plainest  words  strange  beauty  wore, 
Like  weeds  with  dewdrops  laden. 

The  saddest  theme  had  something  sweet. 
The  gravest,  something  tender, 

AVliile  witli  slow  steps  they  wandered  on, 
Mid  summer's  fading  splendor. 

He  said,  "Next  week  the  church    will 
hold 

A  day  of  prayer  and  fasting"  ; 
And  then  he  stop])ed,  and  bent  to  pick 

A  white  life-everlasting,  — 


A  silvery  bloom,  with  fadeless  leaves ; 

He  gave  it  to  her,  sighing ; 
A  mute  confession  was  his  glance, 

Her  blush  a  mute  replying. 

"Mehetabel !"  (at  last  he  spoke), 
' '  My  fairest  one  and  dearest ! 

One  thought  is  ever  to  my  heart 
The  sweetest  and  the  nearest. 

"You  read  my  soul ;  you  know  my  wisli ; 

0,  grant  me  its  fultillhig!" 
She  answered  low,  "If  Heaven  smiles, 

And  if  my  father 's  willing  ! " 

No  idle  passion  swayed  her  heart, 
This  quaint  New  England  beauty ! 

Faith  was  the  guardian  of  her  life,  — 
Obedience  was  a  duty. 

Too  truthful  for  reserve,  she  stood, 
Her  brown  eyes  earthward  casting. 

And  held  with  trembling  hand  the  while 
Her  white  life-everlasting. 

Her  sober  answer  pleased  the  youth,  — 
Frank,  clear,  and  gravely  cheerful ; 

He  left  her  at  her  father's  door, 
Too  happy  to  be  fearful. 

She  looked  on  high,  with  earnest  plea. 
And  Pleaven  seemed  bright  above  lier; 

And  when  she  shyly  spoke  his  name, 
Her  father  praised  her  lover. 

And  when,  that  night,  she  sought  her 
couch, 

"With  head-board  high  and  olden. 
Her  prayer  was  praise,  her  pillow  down, 

And  all  her  dreams  were  golden. 

And  still  upon  her  throbbing  heart. 
In  bloom  and  Ijreath  undying, 

A  few  life-everlasting  flowers. 
Her  lover's  gift,  were  lying. 

0  Venus'  myrtles,  fresh  and  green  ! 

O  Gupid's  blushing  roses  ! 
Not  on  your  classic  flowers  alone 

The  sacred  light  reposes ; 

Though  gentler  care  may  shield  your  buds 
Fiom  noith-winds  rude  and  blasting, 

As  dear  to  Love,  those  few,  pale  flowers 
Of  white  life-everlasting. 


WILLIAM   D.    nOWELLS.  —  S.   M.   B.   PIATT. 


303 


WILLIAM  D.  HOWELLS. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

BEFORE  THE  GATE. 

TiiEY  gave  the  whole  long  day  to  idle 
laughter, 

To  fitful  song  and  jest, 
To  moods  of  soberness  as  idle,  after. 

And  silences,  as  idle  too  as  the  rest. 

But  when  at  last  i;pon  their  way  return- 

.ing, 
Taciturn,  late,  and  loath. 
Through  the  broad  meadow  in  the  sun- 
set burning, 
Thej'  reached  the  gate,  one  fine  spell 
hindered  them  both. 

Her  heart  was  troubled  with  a  subtile 
anguish 
Such  as  but  women  know 
That  wait,  and  lest  love  speak  or  speak 
not  languish. 
And  what  they  would,  would  rather 
they  would  not  so ; 

Till  he  said,  —  man-like  nothing  compre- 
hending 
Of  all  the  wondrous  guile 
That  women  won  win  themselves  with, 
and  bending 
Eyes  of  relentless  asking  on  her  the 
while,  — 

"Ah,  if  beyond  this  gate  the  path  united 

Our  steps  as  far  as  death. 
And  I  might  open  it!  — "     His  voice, 

atfrighted 
At   its  own  daring,   faltered  under  his 

breath. 

Then  she — whom  both  his  faith  and  fear 
enchanted 
Far  beyond  words  to  tell. 
Feeling    her    woman's   finest   wit    had 
wanted 
The  art  he  had  that  knew  to  blunder 
so  well — 

Shyly  drew  near,  a  little  step,  and  mock- 
ing, 
"Shall  we  not  be  too  late 
For  tea?"  she  said.      "I'm  quite  worn 
out  with  walking : 
Yes,  thanks,  your  arm.     And  will  you 
—  open  the  gate?" 


S.  M.  B.  PIATT. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

MY  OLD  KENTUCKY  NURSE. 

I  KNEW  a  Princess:  she  was  old. 

Crisp-haired,  Hat-featured,  witli  a  look 

Such  as  no  dainty  pen  of  gold 
Would  write  of  in  a  Fairy  Book. 

So  bent  she  almost  crouched,  her  face 
Was  like  the  Sjihinx's  face,  to  me, 

Touched  with  vast  patience,  desert  grace, 
And  lonesome,  brooding  mystery. 

What  wonder  that  a  faith  so  strong 
As  hers,  so  sorrowful,  so  still. 

Should  watch  in  bitter  sands  so  long, 
Obedient  to  a  burdening  will ! 

This  Princess  was  a  Slave, — like  one 

I  read  of  in  a  painted  tale ; 
Yet  free  enough  to  see  the  sun, 

And  all  the  flowers,  without  a  vail. 

Not  of  the  Lamp,  not  of  the  Ring, 
The  helpless,  powerful  Slave  was  she. 

But  of  a  subtler,  fiercer  Thing : 
She  was  the  Slave  of  Slavery. 

Court-lace  nor  jewels  had  she  seen: 
She  wore  a  ])recious  smile,  so  rare 

That  at  her  side  the  wliitest  queen 
Were  dark,  — her  darkness  was  so  fair. 

Nothing  of  loveliest  loveliness 

This  strange,  sad  Princess  seemed  to 
lack  ; 
Majestic  with  her  calm  distress 

She  was,  and  beautiful  though  black  : 

Black,  but  enchanted  black,  and  shut 
In  some  vague  Giant's  tower  of  air, 

Built  higher  than  her  hope  was.     But 
The  True  Knight  came  and  found  her 
there. 

The  Knight  of  the  Pale  Horse,  he  laid 
His  shadowy  lance  against  the  spell 

That  hid  her  Self:  as  if  afraid. 

The  cruel  blackness  shrank  and  fell. 

Then,  lifting  slow  her  pleasant  sleep. 
He  took  her  with  him  through  the  night, 

And  swam  a  liiver  cold  and  deep. 
And  vanished  up  an  awful  Heiglit. 


304 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


And,  in  her  Father's  House  beyond, 
They  gave  her  beauty,  robe,  and  crown, 

■ — On  nie,  1  think,  far,  faint,  and  fond, 
Her  eyes  to-day  look,  yearning,  down. 


B.  R  TAYLOE. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

THE  OLD-FASHIONED  CHOIR. 

I  HAVE  fancied  sometimes,  the  okl  Bethel- 
bent  beam. 

That  trembled  to  earth  in  the  Patriarch's 
dream. 

Was  a  ladder  of  song  in  that  wilderness 
rest 

From  the  pillow  of  stone  to  the  Blue  of 
the  Blest, 

And  the  angels  descending  to  dwell  with 
us  here, 

"Old  Hundred"  and  "Corinth"  and 
"China"  and  "Mear." 

All  tlie  hearts  are  not  dead,  nor  under 

the  sod. 
That   those   breaths   can  blow  open  to 

Heaven  and  God ! 
Ah,  "Silver    Street"  leads  by  a  bright 

golden  road, 
—  0,  not  to  the  hymns  that  in  harmony 

flowed,  — 
But  those  sweet  human  psalms  in  the 

okl-fashioned  choir, 
To  the  girl  that  sang  alto,  — the  girl  that 

sang  air ! 
"Let  us  sing  in  His  praise,"  the  good 

minister  said, 
All  the  psalm-books  at  once  fluttered  open 

at  "York," 
Sunned  their  long  dotted  wings  in  the 

words  that  he  read. 
While  the  leader  leaped  into  the  tune  just 

ahead. 
And  politely  picked  up  the  key-note  with 

a  folk. 
And  the  vicious  old  viol  went  growling 

aloTig, 
At  the  lieels  of  the  girls,  in  the  rear  of 

the  song. 

T  need  not  a  wing, — bid  no  genii  come, 
Witliawondcrful  web  from  Arabian  loom. 
To  bear  me  again  up  the  river  of  Time, 


When  the  world  was  in  rhythm  and  life 

was  its  rhyme  ; 
Where  the  stream  of  the  years  flowed  so 

noiseless  and  narrow. 
That  across  it  there  floated  the  song  of 

the  sparrow  ; 
For  a  sprig  of  green  caraway  carries  me 

there, 
To  the  old  village  church  and  the  old 

village  choir, 
Wlien  clear  of  the  floor  my  feet  slowly 

swung 
And  timed  the  sweet  pulse  of  the  praise 

as  they  sung 
Till  the  glory  aslant  from  the  afternoon 

sun 
Seemed  the  rafters  of  gold  in  God's  temple 

begun ! 
You  may  smile  at  the  nasals  of  old  Dea- 
con Brown, 
Who  followed  by  scent  till  he  ran  the 

tune  down,  — ■ 
And  dear  sister  Green,  with  more  good- 
ness than  grace. 
Rose  anil  fell  on  the  tunes  as  she  stood 

ill  her  place, 
And    where     "Coronation"    e.\:ultantly 

flows, 
Tried  to  reach  the  high  notes  on  the  tips 

of  her  toes ! 
To  the  land  of  tlie  leal  they  have  gone 

with  their  song, 
Where  the  choir  and  the  chorus  together 

belong. 
0,  be  lifted,  ye  Gates !   Let  me  hear  them 

again,  — 
Blessed    song,  blessed    Sabbath,  forever 

Amen ! 


LAURA  C.  REDDEN. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

MAZZINI. 

A  LIGHT  is  out  in  Italy, 

A  golden  tongue  of  purest  flame. 
We  watched  it  burning,  long  and  lone, 

And  (ivery  watcher  knew  its  name, 
And  knew  from  whence  its  fervor  came: 

That  one  rare  light  of  Italy, 
Which  ])ut  sidf-seekiiig  souls  to  shame  ! 

This  light  which  burnt  for  Italy 

Through  all  tlie  blackness  of  her  night, 


JOHN   HAY. 


305 


She  doubted,  once  upon  a  time, 
Because  it  took  away  her  sight, 

She  looked  and  said,  "There  is  Jio  light !' 
It  was  thine  eyes,  poor  Italy ! 

That  knew  not  dark  apart  from  bright. 

This  flame  which  burnt  for  Italy, 
It  would  not  let  her  haters  sleep. 

They  blew  at  it  with  angry  breath, 
And  only  fed  its  upwaid  leap, 

And  oidy  made  it  hot  and  deep. 
Its  burning  showed  us  Italy, 

And  all  the  hopes  she  had  to  keep. 

This  light  is  out  in  Italy, 

Her  eyes  shall  seek  for  it  in  vain  ! 
For  her  sweet  sake  it  spent  itself, 

Too  early  flickering  to  its  wane,  — 
Too  long  blown  over  by  her  pain. 

Bow  down  and  weep,  0  Italy, 
Thou  canst  not  kindle  it  again ! 


UNAWARES. 

The  wind  was  whispering  to  the  vines 
The  secret  of  the  summer  night ; 
The  tinted  oriel  window  gleamed 
But  faintly  in  the  misty  light ; 
Beneath  it  we  together  sat 
In  the  sweet  stillness  of  content. 

Till  from  a  slow-consenting  cloud 
Came  forth  Diana,  bright  and  bold, 
And  drowned  us,  ere  we  wei'e  aware, 
In  a  great  shower  of  liquid  gold  ; 
And,  shyly  lifting  up  my  eyes, 
I  made  acquaintance  with  your  face. 

And  sudden  something  in  me  stirred. 
And  moved  me  to  impulsive  speech, 
With  little  flutterings  between, 
And  little  pauses  to  beseech. 
From  your  sweet  graciousness  of  mind, 
Indulgence  and  a  kindly  ear. 

Ah  !  glad  was  I  as  any  bird 
That  softly  pipes  a  timid  note, 
To  hear  it  taken  up  and  trilled 
Out  cheerily  by  a  stronger  throat, 
"When,  free  from  discord  and  constraint. 
Your  thought  responded  to  my  thought. 

I  had  a  carven  missal  once, 
With  graven  scenes  of  "Christ,  his  Woe." 
One  picture  in  that  quaint  olil  book 
Will  never  from  my  memorv  go, 
'20 


Though  merely  in  a  childish  wise 
I  used  to  search  for  it  betimes. 

It  showed  the  face  of  God  in  man 
Abandoned  to  his  watch  of  jiain, 
And  given  of  his  own  good-will 
To  every  weaker  thing's  disdain  ; 
But  from  the  darkness  overliead 
Two  pitying  angel  eyes  looked  down. 

How  often  in  the  bitter  night 
Have  I  not  fallen  on  my  face. 
Too  sick  and  tired  of  heart  to  ask 
God's  pity  in  u]}'  grievous  case ; 
Till  the  dank  deadness  of  the  dark, 
lleceding,  left  me,  pitiless. 

Then  have  I  said :  "Ah  !  Christ  the  Lord  ! 
God  sent  his  angel  unto  thee ; 
But  both  ye  leave  me  to  myself,  — 
Perchance  ye  do  not  even  see  !  " 
Then  was  it  as  a  mighty  stone 
Above  my  sunken  heart  were  rolled. 

Now,  in  the  moon's  transfiguiing  light, 
I  seemed  to  see  you  in  a  dream  ; 
Your  listening  face  was  silvered  o'er 
By  one  divinely  radiant  beam  ; 
I  leant  towards  you,  and  my  talk 
Was  dimly  of  the  haunting  past. 

I  took  you  through  deep  soundings  where 
My  freighted  ships  went  down  at  noon,  — 
Gave  glimpses  of  deflowered  jjlaius, 
Blown  over  by  the  hot  Simoon ; 
Then  I  was  silent  for  a  space : 
"  God  sends  no  angel  unto  me !  " 

My  heart  withdrew  into  itself, 
Wh(^n  lo  !  u  knocking  at  the  door: 
"Am  I  so  soon  a  stranger  here. 
Who  was  an  honored  guest  before  ? " 
Then  looking  in  your  eyes,  I  knew 
You  were  God's  angel  sent  to  me ! 


JOHN  HAY. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

A  WOMAN'S  LOVE. 

AsENTiXEL  angel  sitting  high  in  glory 
Heard  this  shrill  wail  ring  out  from  Pur- 
gatory : 
"Have  mercy,  mighty  angel,  hear  my 
story  ! 


506 


SONGS   OF  TIIEEE   CENTUTJES. 


"  I  loved,  —  and,  Hind  with  passionate 

love,  I  fell. 
Love  brought  me  down  to  death,    and 

death  to  Hell. 
For  God  is  just,  and  death  for  sin  is  well. 

"I  do  not  rage  against  his  high  decree, 
Nor  for  myself  do  ask  that  grace  shall  be ; 
But  for  my  love  on  earth  who  mourns 
for  me. 

"Great   Spirit!     Let  me   see  my  love 

again 
And  comfort  him  one  hour,  and  I  were 

fain 
To  pay  a  thousand  years  of  fire  and  pain." 

Then  .said  the  pitying  angel,  "Nay, 
repent 

That  wild  vow  !  Look,  the  dial-finger 's 
bent 

Down  to  the  last  hour  of  thy  punish- 
ment ! " 

But  still  she  wailed,    "I  pray  thee,  let 

me  go ! 
I  cannot  rise  to  peace  and  leave  him  so. 
0,  let  me  soothe  him  in  his  bitter  woe !" 

The  brazen  gates  ground  sullenly  ajar. 
And  upward,  joyous,  like  a  rising  star, 
She  rose  and  vanished  in  the  ether  far. 

But  soon  adown  the  dying  sunset  sailing, 
And   like  a  wounded   bird  her   pinions 

trailing, 
She  fluttered  "back,  with  broken-hearted 

wailing. 

She  sobbed,  "I  found  him  by  the  sum- 
mer sea 

Eeclined,  his  head  upon  a  maiden's 
knee,  — 

She  cui'led  his  hair  and  kissed  him.  Woe 
is  me ! " 

She   wept,    "Now  let  my  punishment 

begin ! 
I  have  been  fond  and  foolish.     TiOt  me  in 
To  expiate  my  sorrow  and  my  sin." 

The  angel  answered,    "Nay,  sad  soul, 

go  higher ! 
To    be    deceived   in    your   true    heart's 

desire 
Was  bitt(Mer  than  a  thousand  years  of 

lire ! " 


ELIZABETH  STUAET  PHELPS. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

ON  THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS. 

It  chanceth  once  to  every  soul. 
Within  a  narrow  hour  of  doubt  and  dole, 

Upon  Life's  Bridge  of  Sighs  to  stand, 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand. 

0  palace  of  the  rose-heart's  hue  ! 
How  like  a  flower  the  warm  light  falls 
from  you ! 

0  prison  with  the  hollow  eyes  ! 
Beneath  your  stony  stare  no  flowers  ari.se. 

O  palace  of  the  rose-sweet  sin ! 

How  safe  the  heart  that  does  not  enter  in ! 

O  blessed  prison-walls !  how  true 
The  freedom  of  the  soul  that  chooseth 
you! 


ALL  THE  RIVERS. 

"All  the  rivers  run  into  the  sea." 
Like  the  pulsing  of  a  river, 
The  motion  of  a  song. 
Wind  the  olden  words  along 
The  tortuous  windings  of  my  thought, 
whenever 
I  sit  beside  the  sea. 

All  the  rivers  run  into  the  sea. 
0  you  little  leaping  river, 
Laugh  on  beneath  your  breath ! 
With  a  heart  as  deep  as  death. 
Strong   stream,    go   patient,  brave   and 
hasting  never, 
I  sit  beside  the  sea. 

All  the  rivers  run  into  the  sea. 
Why  the  striving  of  a  river. 
The  passion  of  a  soul  ? 
Calm  the  eternal  waters  roll 
Upon   the   eternal   shore.      Somewhere, 
whatever 
Seeks  it  finds  the  sea. 

All  tlie  rivers  run  into  tlie  sea. 

O  thou  bounding,  burning  river, 

Hurrying  heart  I  —  I  seem 

To  know  (so  one  knows  in  a  dream) 

That  in  the  waiting  heart  of  God  forever 
Thou  too  shalt  iind  the  sea. 


EEBECCA  S.   TALFEEY.  —  WILLIAM   C.   GAXNETT. 


307 


EEBECCA  S.  PALFREY. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

WHITE  UNDERNEATH. 

Into  a  city  street, 

Narrow  and  noisome,  chance  had  led  my 

feet; 
Poisonous  to  every  sense ;  and  the  sun's 

rays 
Loved  not  the  unclean  place. 

It  seemed  that  no  pure  thing 

Its  whiteness  here  would  ever  dare  to 

bring ; 
Yet  even  into  this  dark  place  and  low, 
God  had  sent  down  his  snow. 


Here,  too,  a  little  child 

Stood  by  the  drift,  now  blackened  and 

defiled ; 
And  with  his  rosy  hands,  in  earnest  play. 
Scraped  the  dark  crust  away. 

Checking  my  hurried  pace, 
To  watch  the  busy  hands  and  earnest  face, 
I  heard  him  laugh  aloud  in  pure  delight. 
That  underneath,  't  was  white. 

Then,  through  a  broken  pane, 

A  woman's  voice  summoned  him  in  again, 

"With   softened   mother-tones,  that  half 

excused 
The  unclean  words  she  used. 

And  as  I  lingered  near. 
His  baby  accents  fell  upon  my  ear  : 
"See,  I  can  make  the  snow  again  for  you. 
All  clean  and  white  and  new!" 

Ah  !  surely  God  knows  best. 

Our  sight  is  short ;  faith  trusts  to  him 

the  rest. 
Sometimes,  we  know,  he  gives  to  human 

hands 
To  work  out  his  commands. 

Perhaps  he  holds  apart. 

By  baby  fingers,  in  that  mother's  heart. 

One  fai]-,  clean  spot  that  yet  may  spread 

and  grow. 
Till  all  be  white  as  snow. 


\YILLIAM  C.  GANKETT. 

[U.   S.   A.] 

LISTENING  FOR  GOD. 

I  HEAR  it  often  in  the  dark, 

I  hear  it  in  the  light,  — 
Where  is  the  voice  that  calls  to  me 

With  such  a  quiet  might  ? 
It  seems  but  echo  to  my  thought. 

And  yet  beyond  the  stars ; 
It  seems  a  heart-beat  in  a  hush, 

And  yet  the  planet  jars. 

0,  may  it  be  that  far  within 

My  inmost  soul  there  lies 
A  spirit-sky,  that  opens  with 

Those  voices  of  surprise  ? 
And  can  it  be,  by  night  and  day. 

That  firmament  serene 
Is  just  the  heaven  where  God  himself, 

The  Father,  dwells  unseen? 

0  God  within,  so  close  to  me 

That  every  thought  is  plain, 
Be  judge,  be  friend,  be  Father  still, 

And  in  thy  heaven  reign  ! 
Thy  heaven  is  mine, — my  very  soul! 

Thy  words  are  sweet  and  strong; 
They  fill  my  inward  silences 

With  music  and  with  song. 

They  send  me  challenges  to  right. 

And  loud  rebuke  my  ill; 
They  ring  my  bells  of  victory. 

They  breathe  my  "Peace,  be  still !" 
They  ever  seem  to  say,  "My  child. 

Why  seek  me  so  all  day  ? 
Now  journey  inward  to  thyself. 

And  listen  by  the  way." 


MARY  G.  BRAINERD. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

GOD  KNOWETH. 

I  KNOW  not  what  shall  befall  me, 
God  hangs  a  mist  o'er  my  eyes. 

And  so,  each  step  of  my  onward  path. 
He  makes  new  scenes  to  rise. 

And  every  joy  he  sends  me  comes 
As  a  sweet  and  glad  surprise. 


308 


SONGS   OF   TIIKEE   CENTURIES. 


I  see  not  a  step  before  me, 
As  I  tread  on  aiiotlicr  year; 

But  the  past  is  still  in  God's  keeping, 
The  future  his  mercy  shall  clear, 

And  what  looks  dark  in  the  distance 
May  brighten  as  I  draw  near. 

For  perha[>s  the  dreaded  future 
Has  less  bitter  than  I  think  ; 

The  Lord  may  sweeten  the  waters 
Before  I  stoop  to  drink, 

Or,  if  jVIarah  must  be  JVIarah, 
He  will  stand  beside  its  brink. 

It  may  be  he  keeps  waiting 

Till  the  coming  of  my  feet 
Some  gilt  of  such  rare  blessedness, 

Some  joy  so  strangely  sweet. 
That  my  lips  shall  only  tremble 

With  the  thanks  they  cannot  speak. 

0  restful,  blissful  ignorance  ! 
'T  is  blessed  not  to  know, 

It  holds  me  in  those  mighty  arms 

Which  will  not  let  me  go, 
And  hushes  my  soul  to  rest 

On  the  bosom  which  loves  me  so ! 

So  I  go  on  not  knowing; 
I  would  not  if  I  might ; 

1  would  rather  walk  in  the  dark  with 

God, 
Than  go  alone  in  the  light ; 
I  would  rather  walk  with  Him  by  faith. 
Than  w\alk  alone  by  sight. 

My  heart  shrinks  back  from  trials 
Which  the  future  nuiy  disclose, 

Yet  I  never  had  a  sorrow- 
But  what  the  dear  Lord  chose  ; 

So  I  send  the  coming  tears  back. 

With    the    whispered    word,     "  He 
knows." 


JOHN  W.  CHADWICK. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

A  SONG  OF  TRUST. 

0  Love  Divine,  of  all  that  is 
The  sweetest  still  and  hcst, 

Fain  would  I  come  and  rest  to-night 
\jl>on  thy  tender  breast ; 


As  tired  of  sin  as  any  child 

Was  ever  tired  of  play. 
When  evening's  hush  has  folded  iu 

The  noises  of  the  day ; 

When  just  for  very  weariness 

The  little  one  will  creep 
Into  the  arms  that  have  no  joy 

Like  holding  him  in  sleep ; 

And  looking  upward  to  thy  face, 
So  gentle,  sweet,  and  strong. 

In  all  its  looks  for  those  who  love. 
So  pitiful  of  wrong, 

I  pray  thee  turn  me  not  away. 

For,  sinful  though  1  be. 
Thou  knowest  everything  I  need, 

And  all  my  need  of  thee. 

And  yet  the  spirit  in  my  heart 
Says,  Wherefore  should  I  pray 

That  thou  shouldst  seek  me  with  thylove. 
Since  thou  dost  seek  alway ; 

And  dost  not  even  wait  until 

I  urge  my  steps  to  thee ; 
But  in  the  darkness  of  my  life 

Art  coming  still  to  me  ? 

I  pray  not,  then,  because  I  would ; 

1  pray  because  1  must ; 
There  is  no  meaning  in  my  prayer 

But  thankfulness  and  trust. 

I  would  not  have  thee  otherwise 

Than  what  thou  ever  art : 
B(!  still  thyself,  and  then  I  know 

We  cannot  live  apart. 

But  still  thy  love  will  beckon  me, 
And  still  thy  strength  will  come. 

In  nuiny  ways  to  bear  me  up 
And  bring  me  to  my  home. 

And  thou  wilt  hear  the  thought  I  mean. 

And  not  the  words  I  say ; 
Wilt  hear  the  thanks  among  the  words 

That  only  seem  to  pray ; 

As  if  thou  wert  not  always  good. 

As  if  thy  loving  care 
Could  ever  miss  me  in  the  midst 

Of  this  thy  temple  fair. 

For,  if  I  ever  .loubted  thee, 
How  could  1  any  more! 


PAUL   H.    HAYNE. 


509 


This  very  night  my  tossing  bark 
Has  reached  the  hajjpy  shore ; 

And  still,  for  all  my  sighs,  my  heart 

Has  sung  itself  to  rest, 
0  Love  Divine,  most  far  and  near, 

Ujion  thy  tender  breast. 


PAUL  H.  HAYNE. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

PRE- EXISTENCE. 

While  sauntering  through  the  crowded 

street, 
Some  half-remembered  face  I  meet. 

Albeit  upon  no  mortal  shore 

Tliat  face,  methinks,  has  smileA  before. 

Lost  in  a  gay  and  festal  throng, 
I  tremble  at  some  tender  song,  — 

Set  to  an  air  whose  golden  bars 
1  must  have  heard  in  other  stars. 

In  sacred  aisles  I  pause  to  share 
The  blessings  of  a  priestly  prayer, — 

A\'lien  the  whole  scene  which  gieets  mine 

eyes 
Li  some  strange  mode  I  recognize 

As  one  whose  every  mystic  part 
1  I'cel  prefigured  in  my  heart. 

At  sunset,  as  I  calmly  stand, 
A  stranger  on  an  alien  strand, 

Familiar  as  my  childhood's  home 
Seems  the  long  stretch  of  wave  and  foam. 

One  sails  toward  me  o'er  the  bay. 
And  what  he  comes  to  do  and  say 

I  can  foretell.     A  prescient  lore 
Springs  from  some  life  outlived  of  yore. 

0  swift,  instinctive,  startling  gleams 
Of  deep  soul-knowledge !  not  as  dreams 

For  aye  ye  vaguely  dawn  and  die. 
But  oft  with  lightning  certainty 


Pierce  through  the  dark,  oblivions  brain, 
To    make    old    thoughts    and    memories 
plain, — 

Thoughts  which  perchance  must  travel 

back 
Across  the  wild,  bewildering  track 

Of  countless  feons ;  memories  far, 
High-reaching  as  yon  pallid  star, 

Unknown,  scarce  seen  whose   flickering 

grace 
Faints  ou  the  outmost  rings  of  space ! 


FROM  THE  WOODS. 

Why  should  I,  with  a  mournful,  morbid 

spleen. 
Lament  that  here,  in  this  half-desert 
scene. 
My  lot  is  placed  ? 
At  least  the  poet-winds  are  bold  and 

loud,  — 
At  least  the  sunset  glorifies  the  cloud. 
And  forests  ohl  and  proud 
Rustle  their  verdurous  banners  o'er  the 
waste. 

Perchance  't  is  best  that  I,  whose  Fate's 

eclipse 
Seems  final,  —  I,  whose  sluggish  life- 
wave  slips 
Languid  away, — 
Should  here,  within  these  lowly  walks, 

apart 
From  the  fierce  throbbings  of  the  pop- 
ulous mart, 
Commune  M^ith  mine  own  heart, 
While    Wisdom    blooms    from    buried 
Hope's  decay. 

Nature,  though  wild   her  forms,  sus- 
tains me  still ; 
The  founts  are  musical, — the  barren 
hill 
Glows  with  strange  lights ; 
Through  solemn  pine-groves  the  small 

rivulets  fleet 
Sparkling,  as  if  a  Naiad's  silvery  feet. 
In  quick  and  coy  retreat, 
Glanced  through  the  ttar-gleams  on  calm 
summer  nights ; 


310 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


And  the  great  sky,  the  royal  heaven 

above, 
Darkens  with  storms  or  melts  in  hues 
of  love ; 
While  far  remote, 
Just   where   the   sunlight  smites  the 

woods  with  fire. 
Wakens    the    multitudinous    sylvan 
choir ; 
Their  innocent  love's  desire 
Poured  in  a  rill  of  song  from  each  har- 
monious throat. 

My  walls  are  crumbling,  but  immortal 

looks 
Smile  on  me  here  from  faces  of  rare 
books : 
Shakespeare  consoles 
My  heart  with  true  philosophies  ;  abalm 
Of  spiritual  dews  from  humbler  song 
or  psalm 
Fills  me  with  tender  calm, 
Or  through  hushed  heavens  of  soul  Mil- 
ton's deep  thunder  rolls ! 

And    more    than    all,  o'er    shattered 

wrecks  of  Fate, 
The  relics  of  a  hapjiier  time  and  state, 

My  nobler  life 
Shines  on  unquenched !     0  deathless 

love  that  lies 
In  the  clear  midnight  of  those  passion- 
ate eyes ! 
Joy  waneth  !  Fortune  flies ! 
What  then  ?    Thou  still  art  here,  soul  of 
my  soul,  my  Wife ! 


ISA  CPiAia  KNOX. 


BALLAD  OF  THE  BRIDES  OF  QUAIR. 

A  STILLNESS  crept  about  the  house, 
At  evenfall,  in  noontide  glare  ; 

Uj)on  the  silent  hills  looked  forth 
The  many-windowed  House  of  Quair. 

The  j)eacock  on  the  terrace  screamed  ; 

Browsed  on  the  lawn  the  timid  hare ; 
The  great  trees  gi-ew  i'  the  avenue. 

Calm  by  the  sheltered  House  of  Quair. 

The  pool  was  still ;  around  its  brim 
The  alders  sickened  all  the  air; 


Thei-e  came  no  murmur  from  the  streams. 
Though    nigh  Howed  Leither,  Tweed, 
and  Quair. 

The  days  hold  on  their  wonted  pace. 
And  mi'n  to  court  and  camp  repair, 

Their  jiart  to  fill,  of  good  or  ill. 

While  women  keep  the  House  of  Quair. 

And  one  is  clad  in  widow's  weeds. 
And  one  is  maiden-like  and  fair. 

And  day  by  day  tliey  seek  the  paths 
About  the  lonely  fields  of  Quair. 

To  see  the  trout  leap  in  the  streams, 
Tlie  summer  clouds  reflected  there, 

The  maiden  loves  in  pensive  dreams 
To  hang  o'er  .sUver  Tweed  and  Quair. 

Within,  in  pall-black  velvet  clad, 
Sits  stately  in  her  oaken  chair  — 

A  stately  dame  of  ancient  name — 
The  mother  of  the  House  of  Quair. 

Her  daughter  broiders  by  her  side, 
With  heavy  drooping  golden  hair. 

And  listens  to  her  frequent  plaint,  — 
' '  111  fare  the  brides  that  come  to  Quah. 

"For  more  than  one  hath  lived  in  pine. 
And  more  than  one  hath  died  of  caro^ 

And  more  than  one  hatli  sorely  sinned, 
Left  lonely  in  the  House  of  Quair. 

"Alas !  and  ere  thy  father  died 
I  liad  not  in  his  heart  a  share. 

And  now — may  God  forfend  her  ill  — 
Thy  brother  brings  his  bride  to  Quair." 

She  came ;  they  kissed  her  in  the  liall. 
They  kissed  her  on  the  winding  stair, 

They  led  her  to  the  chamber  high, 
The  fairest  in  the  House  of  Quair. 

They  bade  her  from  the  window  look, 
And  mark  the  scene  how  passing  fair, 

Among  whoso  ways  the  quiet  days 
Would  linger  o'er  the  wife  of  Quair. 

"'T  is  f\iir,"  she  said  on  looking  forth, 
"Rut  what  although  't  were  bleak  and 
bare  —  " 

She  looked  the  love  she  did  not  speak. 
And  broke  the  ancient  curse  of  (^uair. 

"Where'er  he  dwells,  where'er  he  goes, 
His  dangers  and  his  toils  1  share;." 

What  need  be  said, — she  was  not  one 
Of  the  ill-fated  brides  of  Quair. 


HENRY  TIMROD. — "WALTER  F.   MITCHELL. 


311 


HENRY  TIMROD. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

SPRING  IN  CAROLINA. 

Spring,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the 

air 
Which  dwells  with  all  things  fair, 
SjH'ing,  with  her  golden  suns  and  silver 

rain. 
Is  with  ns  once  again. 

Out  in  the  lonely  woods  the  jasmine  burns 
Its  fragrant  lamjis,  and  turns 
Into  a  royal  court  with  green  festoons 
The  banks  of  dark  lagoons. 

In  the  deep  heart  of  every  forest  tree 

The  blood  is  all  aglee, 

And   there's  a  look  about  the  leafless 

bowers 
As  if  they  dreamed  of  flowers. 

Yet  still  on  every  side  we  trace  the  hand 

Of  Winter  in  the  land, 

Save  where  the   maple   reddens  on  the 

lawn, 
Flushed  by  the  season's  dawn; 

Or  where,  like  those  strange  semblances 

we  find 
Tliat  age  to  childhood  bind. 
The  elm  puts  on,  as  if  in  Nature's  scorn, 
The  brown  of  autumn  corn. 

As  yet  the  turf  is  dark,  although  you 

know 
That,  not  a  span  below, 
A  thousand  germs  are  groping  through 

the  gloom, 
And  soon  mil  burst  their  tomb. 

In  gardens  you  may  note  amid  the  dearth, 

The  crocus  breaking  earth ; 

And  near  the  snowdrop's  tender  white 

and  green. 
The  violet  in  its  screen. 

But  many  gleams  and  shadows  need  must 

pass 
Along  the  budding  grass, 
And  weeks  go  by,  before  the  enamored 

South 
Shall  kiss  the  rose's  mouth. 


Still  there 's  a  sense  of  blossoms  yet  un- 
born 
In  the  sweet  airs  of  morn  ; 
One  almost  looks  to  see  the  very  street 
Grow  2:)urple  at  his  feet. 

At  times  a  fragrant  breeze  comes  floating 

by, 
And  brings,  you  know  not  why, 
A  feeling  as  when  eager  crowds  await 
Before  a  palace  gate 

Some  wondrous  pageant ;  and  you  scarce 

would  start. 
If  from  a  beech's  heart, 
A  blue-eyed  Dryad,  stej^ping  forth,  should 

say, 
"Behold  me !    I  am  May  !" 


WALTER  F.  MITCHELL. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

TACKING  SHIP  OFF  SHORE. 

The  weather-leech  of  the  topsail  shivers, 
The  bow-lines  strain,  and  the  lee-shrouds 

slacken. 
The  braces  are  taut,  the  lithe  boom  quivers. 
And  the  waves  with  the  coming  squall- 
cloud  blacken. 

Open  one  point  on  the  weather-bow. 

Is  the  lighthouse    tall    on  Fire  Island 

Head? 
There  's  a  shade  of  doubt  on  the  captain's 

brow, 
And  the  pilot  watches  the  heaving  lead. 

I  stand  at  the  wheel,  and  with  eager  eye, 
To  sea  and  to  sky  and  to  shore  1  gaze. 
Till  the  muttered  order  of"  Full  (mdby/" 
Is  suddenly  changed  iov"  Full  for  stays!" 

The  ship  bends  lower  before  the  breeze. 
As  her  broadside  fair  to  the  blast  sh  e  1  ay  s ; 
And  she  swifter  springs  to  the  rising  seas. 
As  the  pilot  calls,  "Stand  by  for  stays!" 

It  is  silence  all,  as  each  in  his  place. 
With  the  gathered  coil  in  his  hardened 

hands. 
By  tack  and  bowline,  by  sheet  and  brace. 
Waiting  the  watchword  impatient  stands. 


312 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTUPJES. 


And  the  light  on  Fire  Island  Head  draws 

near, 
As,  trumpet-winged,  the  pilot's  shout 
From  his  post  on  the  bowsprit's  heel  I 

hear, 
With  the    welcome    call   of,    "Ilcadij! 

About!" 

No  time  to  spare  !     It  is  touch  and  go ; 

And  the  captain  growls,  "Down,  hehn! 
hard  down!" 

As  my  weight  on  the  whirling  spokes  I 
throw, 

While  heaven  grows  black  with  the  storm- 
cloud's  frown. 

High  o'er  the  knight-heads  flies  the  spray, 
As  we  meet  the  shock  of  the  plunging 

sea; 
And  my  shoulder  stiif  to  the  wlieel  I  lay. 
As  I  answer,  "Ay,  ay,  sir!    Ha-a-rd  a 

Ice!" 

"With  the  swerving  leap  of  a  startled  steed 
Tlie  sliiji  flies  fast  in  the  eye  of  the  wind. 
The  dangerous  shoals  on  the  lee  recede, 
And  the  headland  white  we  have  left 
behind. 

The  topsails  flutter,  the  jibs  collapse, 
And  belly  and  tug  at  the  groaning  cleats  ; 
The  spanker  slats,  and  the  mainsail  flaps  ; 
And   thunders   the   order,   "Tucks   and 
sheets!" 

Jlid  the  rattle  of  blocks  and  the  tramp 

of  the  crew. 
Hisses  the  rain  of  the  rushing  squall : 
The  sails  are  aback  from  clew  to  clew. 
And  now  is  the  moment  for,  "Mainsail, 

haul!" 

And  the  heavy  yards,  like  a  baby's  toy. 
By  fifty  strong  arms  are  swiftly  swung  : 
Sl'.e  holds  her  way,  and  I  look  with  joy 
For  the  first  white  spray  o'er  the  bulvvarks 
flung. 

"Let  go,  and  haul!"  'T  is  the  last  com- 
mand. 

And  the  head-sails  fill  to  tlic  blast  once 
more ; 

Astern  and  to  leeward  lies  the  land, 

With  its  breakers  white  on  the  shingly 
shore. 


What  matters  the  reef,  or  the  rain,  or  the 

squall  ? 
I  steady  the  helm  for  the  open  sea ; 
The   first   mate   clamors,  "Belay   there, 

all!" 
And  the  captain's  breath  once  more  comes 

free. 

And  so  off  shore  let  the  good  ship  fly ; 
Little  care  I  how  the  gusts  may  blow. 
In  my  fo'castle  bunk,  in  a  jacket  dry. 
Eight  bells  have  struck,  and  my  watch  is 
below. 


HAEKIET  PRESGOTT  SPOFFORD. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

HEREAFTER. 

Love,  when  all  these  years   are  silent, 

vanished  quite  and  laid  to  rest, 
When   you   and    I    are   sleeping,  folded 

breathless  breast  to  breast. 
When  no  morrow  is  before  us,  and  the 

long  grass  tosses  o'er  lis. 
And  our  grave  remains  forgotten,  or  by 

alien  footsteps  pressed,  — 

Still  that  love  of  ours  will  linger,  that 

great  love  enrich  the  eartli. 
Sunshine  in  tlie  heavenly  azure,  breezes 

blowing  joyous  mirth ; 
Fragi-ance    fanning   off  from   flowers, 

nielodj^  of  summer  showers. 
Sparkle  of  the  spicy  wood-fires  round  the 

happy  autumn  hearth. 

That 's  our  love.     But  you  and  I,  dear, 

—  shall  we  linger  with  it  yet, 
IMingled  in  one  dewdrop,  tangled  in  one 

sunbeam's  golden  net,  — 
On   the  violet's   pur])le   bosom,  I  the 

sheen,  Tnit  you  the  blossom, 
Stream  on  sunset  winds  and  be  the  haze 

with  which  some  hill  is  wet? 

Or,  beloved, — if  ascending, — when  we 

have  endowed  the  world 
With  the  best  bloom  of  our  being,  whither 

will  our  way  be  whirled. 
Through  what  vast  and  starry  spaces, 

toward  what  awful  holy  places. 
With  a  white  liglit  on  our  faces,  spirit 

over  spirit  furled? 


WILLIAM  WINTER.  —  JOAQUIN   MILLER. 


313 


Only  this  oni-  yearning  answers,  — where- 

so'er  that  way  defile, 
Not  a  film  shall  part  us  through  the  aeons 

of  that  mighty  while, 
In  the  fair  eternal  weather,  even  as 

j)hantoms  still  together. 
Floating,    floating,   one   forever,  in   the 

light  of  God's  great  smile ! 


SONG. 

In  the  summer  twilight, 

While  yet  the  dew  was  hoar, 
]  went  plucking  purple  pansies 

Till  my  love  should  come  to  shore, 
'j'he  fishing-lights  their  dances 

Were  keeping  out  at  sea. 
And,  "Come,"  I  sang,  "my  true  love, 

Come  hasten  home  to  me  !" 

But  the  sea  it  fell  a-moaning. 

And  the  white  gulls  rocked  thereon. 
And  tlipyoungmoon  dropped  from  heaven, 

And  the  lights  hid,  one  by  one. 
All  silently  their  glances 

Slipped  down  the  cruel  sea. 
And,  "Wait,"  cried  the  night  and  wind 
and  storm,  — 

"Wait  till  I  come  to  thee." 


WILLIAM  WI^^TER. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

AZRAEL. 

Come  with  a  smile,  when  come  thou  must, 
Evangel  of  the  •world  to  be, 

And  touch  and  glorify  this  dust,  — 
This  shuddering  dust  that  now  is  me,  — 
And  from  this  prison  set  me  free ! 

Long  in  those  awful  eyes  I  quail. 
That  gaze  across  the  grim  profound : 

Upon  that  sea  there  is  no  sail, 
Nor  any  light,  nor  any  sound, 
From  the  far  shore  that  girds  it  round. 

Only — two  still  and  steady  rays. 

That  those  twin  orbs  of  doom  o'ertop ; 

Only — a  quiet,  patient  gaze 

That  drinks  my  being,  drop  by  drop. 
And  bids  the  pulse  of  nature  stop. 


Come  with  a  smile,  auspicious  friend, 
To  usher  in  the  eternal  day  ! 

Of  these  weak  terrors  make  an  end. 
And  charm  the  paltry  chains  away 
That  bind  me  to  this  timorous  clay ! 

And  let  me  know  my  soul  akin 
To  sunrise  and  the  winds  of  morn, 

And  every  grandeur  that  has  been 
Since  this  all-glorious  world  was  born, 
Nor  longer  droop  in  my  own  scorn. 

Come,  when  the  way  grows  dark  and  chill, 
Come,  when  the  baffled  mind  is  weak, 

And  in  the  heart  that  voice  is  still 
Which  used  in  happier  days  to  speak, 
Or  only  whispers  sadly  meek. 

Come  with  a  smile  that  dims  the  sun  ! 
With  pitying  heart  and  gentle  hand ! 

And  waft  me,  from  a  work  that 's  done, 
To  peace  that  waits  on  thy  command. 
In  God's  mysterious  better  land! 


JOAQUIN  MILLER. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

FROM   "WALKER  IN  NICARAGUA." 

Success  had  made  him  more  than  king; 

Defeat  made  him  the  vilest  thing 

In  name,  contempt  or  hate  can  bring : 

So  much  the  loaded  dice  of  war 

Do  make  or  mar  of  character. 

Speak  ill  who  will  of  him,  he  died 

In  all  disgrace ;  say  of  the  dead 

His   heart   was   black,  his   hands   were 

red,  — 
Say  this  much,  and  be  satisfied. 

I  lay  this  crude  wreath  on  his  dust, 
Inw'ove  with  sad,  sweet  memories 
Ivecalled  here  by  these  colder  seas. 
I  leave  the  wild  bird  with  his  trust, 
To  sing  and  say  him  nothing  wrong ; 
I  wake  no  rivalry  of  song. 

He  lies  low  in  the  levelled  sand. 
Unsheltered  from  the  tropic  sun, 
And  now  of  all  he  knew,  not  one 
Will  speak  him  fair,  in  that  far  land. 
Perha])S  't  was  this  that  made  me  seek, 
Disguised,  his  grave  one  winter-tide  j 


314 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


A  weakness  for  the  weaker  side, 
A  siding  with  the  helpless  weak. 

A  palm  not  far  held  out  a  hand ; 
Hard  by  a  long  green  haml)oo  swung, 
And  bent  like  some  great  bow  unstrung, 
And  quivereil  like  a  willow  wand; 
Beneath  a  broad  banana's  leaf, 
Perched  on  its  fruits  that  crooked  hung, 
A  bird  in  rainbow  splendor  sung 
A  low,  sad  song  of  tempered  grief. 

No  sod,  no  sign,  no  cross  nor  stone, 
B  it  at  his  side  a  cactus  green 
Upheld  its  lances  long  and  keen; 
It  stood  in  hot  red  sands  alone, 
riat-palnied  and  fierce  with  lifted  spears; 
Oin^  bloom  of  crimson  crowned  its  head, 
A  drop  of  blood,  so  bright,  so  red, 
Yet  I'edolent  as  roses'  tears. 
In  my  left  hand  I  held  a  shell, 
All  rosy  lipped  and  pearly  red; 
I  laid  it  by  his  lowly  bed, 
For  he  did  love  so  passing  well 
The  grand  songs  of  the  solemn  sea. 

0  shell !  sing  well,  wild,  with  a  will, 
When  storms  blow  hard  and  birds  be  still. 
The  wildest  sea-song  known  to  thee ! 

1  said  some  things,  with  folded  hands, 
Soft  whispered  in  the  dim  sea-sound. 
And  eyes  held  humbly  to  the  ground. 
And  frail  knees  sunken  in  the  sands. 
He  had  done  more  than  this  for  me, 
And  yet  I  could  not  well  do  more: 

1  turned  me  down  the  olive  shore, 
And  set  a  sad  face  to  the  sea. 


SUNRISE  IN  VENICE. 

Night  seems  troubled  and  scarce  asleep; 
Her  brows  are  gathered  in  broken  rest; 
Sullen  old  lion  of  dark  St.  Mark, 
A  lid  a  star  in  the  east  starts  up  from  the 

deep ; 
White  as  my  lilies  that  grow  in  the  west. 
Hist !  men  are  passing  hurriedly. 
I  see  the  yellow  wide  wings  of  a  bark 
Sail  silently  over  my  morning-star. 
I  see  men  move  in  the  moving  dark, 
Tall  and  silent  as  columns  are, — 
Great  sinewy  men  that  are  good  to  see. 
With  hair  jnished  back  and  with  open 

breasts ; 
Barefooted  Jishermen  seeking  their  boats, 
Brown  as  walnuts  and  hairy  as  goats,  — 


Brave  old  water-dogs,  wed  to  the  sea. 
First  to  their  labors  and  last  to  their  rests. 

Ships  are  moving !     I  hear  a  horn ; 
A  silver  trumpet  it  sounds  to  me. 
Deep-voiced  and  musical,  far  a-sea .  .  . 
Answers  back,  and  again  it  calls. 
'T  isthesentinel  boats  that  watch  the  town 
All  night,  as  mounting  her  watery  walls, 
And  watching  for  pirate  or  smuggler. 

Down 
Over  the  sea,  and  reaching  away, 
And  against  the  east,  a  soft  light  falls,  — 
Silvery  soft  as  the  mist  of  morn. 
And  I  catch  a  breath  like  the  breath  of 

day. 

The  east  is  blossoming !     Yea,  a  rose, 
Vast  as  the  heavens,  soft  as  a  kiss. 
Sweet  as  the  presence  of  woman  is, 
llises  and  reaches  and  widens  and  grows 
Right  out  of  the  sea,  as  a  blossoming  tree ; 
Richer  and  richer,  so  higher  and  higher, 
Deeper  and  deeper  it  takes  its  hue ; 
Brighter  and  brighter  it  reaches  through 
The  space  of  heaven  and  the  place  of  stars, 
Till  all  is  as  rich  as  a  rose  can  be, 
Andmyrose-leaves  fall  into  billows  of  fire. 
Then  beams  reach  upward  as  arms  from 

a  sea; 
Then  lances  and  arrows  are  aimed  at  me. 
Then  lances  and  spangles  and  spars  and 

bars 
Are  broken  and  shivered  and  strown  on 

the  sea ; 
And  around  and  about  me  tower  and  spire 
Start  from  the  billows  like  tongues  of  fire. 


UNKNOWN. 


DIFFERENT  POINTS  OF  VIEW. 

Saitii  the  white  owl  to  the  martin  folk, 
In  the  bell'ry  tower  so  grim  and  gray  : 

"Why  do  they  deafen  us  with  these  bells? 
Is  any  one  dead  or  born  to-day?" 

A  martin  peeped  over  the  rim  of  its  nest, 
And   answered   crossly:  "Why,  ain't 
you  heard 
That  an   heir  is   coming  to   the   great 
estate?" 
"I  'aven't,"  the  owl  said,  "'pon  my 
word." 


ANNA  BOYNTON  AVEKILL. 


315 


"Are  men  boni  so,  with  that  white  cock- 
ade?" 
Said  the  little  field-mouse  to  the  old 
brown  rat. 
"\\'Tiy,  you  silly  child,"  the  sage  replied, 
"This  is  the  bridegroom,  — they  know 
him  by  that." 

Saith  the  snail  so snuginhisdappled shell, 
Slowly  stretching  one  cautious  horn, 

As  the  beetle  was  hurrying  by  so  brisk, 
Much  to  his  snailship's  inward  scorn : 

"Why  does  that  creature  ride  by  so  fast  ? 
Has  a  tire  broke  out  to  the  east  or 
west?" 
"Your  Grace,  he  rides  to  the  wedding- 
feast,  "  — 
"Let  the  madman  go.    What  I  want 's 
rest." 

The  swallows  around  the  woodman 
skimmed. 

Poising  and  turning  on  flashing  wing ; 
One  said :  "Howliveththislumpof  earth? 

Intheair,  he  canneithersoarnorspring. 

"Over  the  meadows  we  sweep  and  dart, 

Down  with  the  flowers,  or  up  in  the 

skies ; 

"NATiile  these  poor  lumberers  toil  and  slave. 

Half  starved,  for  how  can  they  catch 

their  flics?" 

Quoth  the  diy-rot  worm  to  his  artisans 
In  the  carpenter's  shop,  as  they  bored 
away : 
"Hark  to  the  soimd  of  the  saw  and  file  ! 
What  are  these  creatures  at  work  at,  — 
say?"     . 

From  his  covered  passage  a  worm  looked 

out, 

And  eyed  the  beings  so  busy  o'erhead  : 

"T  scarcely  know,  my  lord  ;  but  I  think 

They  're  making  a  box  to  bury  their 

dead!" 

Says  a  butterfly  with  his  wings  of  blue 
All  in  a  flutter  of  careless  joy. 

As  he  talks  to  a  dragon-fly  over  a  flower: 
"Ours  is  a  life,  sir,  with  no  alloy. 

"What  are  those  black  things,  row  and 
row, 

Winding  alongbj'the  new-mown  hay  ?" 
"That  is  a  funeral,"  says  the  fly  : 

"The  carpenter  buries  his  sou  to-day." 


ANNA  BOYNTON  AVEKILL. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

BIRCH  STREAM. 

At  noon,  within  the  dusty  town, 
Where  the  wild  river  rushes  down, 

And  thunders  hoarsely  all  day  long, 
I  think  of  thee,  my  hermit  stream. 
Low  singing  in  thy  summer  dream. 

Thine  idle,  sweet,  old,  tranquil  song. 

Northward,  Katahdin's  chasmed  pile 
Looms  through  thy  low,  long,  leafy  aisle, 

Eastward,  Olamon's  summit  shines  ; 
And  I  upon  thy  grassy  shore. 
The  dreamful,  happy  child  of  yore. 

Worship  before  mine  olden  shrines. 

Again  the  sultry  noontide  hush 
Is  sweetly  broken  by  the  thrush, 

Whose  clear  bell  rings  and  dies  away 
Beside  thy  banks,  in  coverts  deep, 
Where  nodding  buds  of  orchis  sleep 

In  dusk,  and  dream  not  it  is  day. 

Again  the  wild  cow-lily  floats 
Her  golden-freighted,  tented  boats. 

In  thy  cool  coves  of  softened  gloom, 
O'ershadowed  by  the  whispering  reed, 
And  purple  plumes  of  pickerel-weed. 

And  meadow-sweet  in  tangled  bloom. 

The  startled  minnows  dart  in  flocks 
Beneath  thy  glimmering  amber  rocks, 

If  but  a  zeph}T  stirs  the  brake  ; 
The  silent  swallow  swoops,  a  flash 
Of  light,  and  leaves,  with  dainty  plash, 

A  ring  of  ripples  in  her  wake. 

—  Without,  the  land  is  hot  and  dim ; 
The  level  fields  in  languor  swim. 

Their  stubble-grasses  brown  as  dust ; 
And  all  along  the  upland  lanes. 
Where  shadeless  noon  oppressive  reigns. 

Dead  roses  wear  their  crowns  of  rust. 

Within,  is  neither  blight  nor  death. 
The  fierce  sun  woos  with  ardent  breath. 

But  cannot  win  thy  sylvan  heart. 
Only  the  child  who  loves  thee  long. 
With  faithful  worship  pure  and  strong, 

Can  know  how  dear  and  sweet  thou  art. 


!16 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


So  loved  I  thee  in  days  gone  by, 

So  love  I  yet,  though  leagues  may  lie 

Between  us,  and  the  years  divide  ;  — 
A  breath  of  coolness,  dawn,  and  dew,  - 
A  joy  forever  fresh  and  true. 

Thy  memory  doth  with  me  abide. 


KATE  PUTNAM  OSGOOD. 

[U.    S.   A.] 

DRIVmG  HOME  THE  COWS. 

Out  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyod  grass 
He  turned  them  into  the  river  lane; 

One  after  another  he  let  them  pass, 
Then  fastened  the  meadow  bars  again. 

Under  the  willows,  and  over  the  hill. 
He  patiently  followed  their  sober  pace ; 

The  merry  whistle  for  once  was  still. 
And   something  shadowed  the  sunny 
face. 

Only  a  boy !  and  his  father  had  said 
He  never  could  let  his  youngest  go : 

Two  already  were  lying  dead, 

Under  the  feet  of  the  trami^ling  foe. 

But  after  the  evening  work  was  done. 
And  the  frogs  were  loud  in  the  mead- 
ow-swamp. 
Over  his  shoulder  he  slung  his  gun. 
And  stealthily  followed  the  footpath 
damp. 

Across  the  clover,  and  through  the  wheat, 
With  resolute  heart  and  purpose  grim, 
Though  cold  was  the  dew  on  his  hurry- 
ing feet. 
And  the  blind  bat's  flitting  startled 
him. 

Thrice  since  then  had  the  lanesbeen  white, 
And  the  orchards  sweet  with  apple- 
bloom  ; 
And  now,  when  the  cows  came  back  at 
night. 
The  feeble  father  drove  them  home. 

For  news  had  come  to  the  lonely  farm 
That  three  were  lying  where  two  had 
lain ; 
And  the  old  man's  tremulous,   palsied 
arm 
Could  never  lean  on  a  son's  again. 


The  summer  day  grew  cool  and  late : 
He  went  for  the  cows  when  the  work 
was  done ; 

But  down  the  lane,  as  he  opened  the  gate, 
He  saw  them  coming,  one  by  one  : 

Brindle,  Ebony,  Speckle,  and  Bess, 
Shaking   their  horns  in  the  evening 
wind ; 
Cropping  the    buttercups    out    of    the 
grass,  — 
But  who  was  it  following  close  behind  ? 

Loosely  swung  in  the  idle  air 
The  empty  sleeve  of  army  blue ; 

And  worn  and  pale,  from  the  crisping 
hair. 
Looked  out  a  face  that  the  father  knew. 

For   Southern    prisons    will    sometimes 
yawn, 
And  yield  their  dead  unto  life  again : 
And  the  day  that  comes  with  a  cloudy 
dawn 
In  golden  glory  at  last  may  wane. 

The  great  tears  sprang  to  their  meeting 
eyes; 
For  the  heart  must  speak  when  the 
lips  are  dumb: 
And  under  the  silent  evening  skies 
Together  they  followed  the  cattle  home. 


LIZZIE  G.  PAPtKEE. 

[U.   S.    A.] 

"WAITING. 

Fon  a  foot  that  will  not  come, 
For  a  song  that  will  not  sound, 

I  hearken,  wait  and  moan  alway, 
And  weary  months  go  round. 

Never  again  in  the  world 
Sliall  tliat  lost  footstep  be ; 

Nor  sea,  nor  bird,  nor  reedy  wind 
Can  match  that  song  to  me. 

But  in  the  chants  of  heaven, 
And  down  the  golden  street, 

My  heart  shall  single  out  that  song 
And  know  that  touch  of  feet. 


UNKNOWN. 


317 


UNKNOWN. 


THE  SECRET  OF  DEATH. 

"She  is  dead ! "  tliey  said  to  him.   ' ' Come 

away ; 
Kiss  her  aud  leave  her,  thy  love  is  clay ! " 

They  smoothed  her  tresses  of  dark  browii 

hair ; 
On  her  forehead  of  stone  they  laid  it  fair ; 

Over  her  eyes  which  gazed  too  much, 
They  drew  the  lids  with  a  gentle  touch ; 

With  a  tender  touch  they  closed  up  well 
The  sweet,  thin  lips  that  had  secrets  to 
tell; 

About  her  brows  and  beautiful  face 
They  tied  her  veil  and  her  marriage-lace, 

And  drew  on  her  white  feet  her  white 

silk  shoes ; 
Which  were   the   whitest  no  eye  could 

choose ; 

And  over  her  bosom  they  crossed  her 
hands,  — 

"Come  away,"  they  said,  "God  under- 
stands!" 

But  there  was  a  silence,  and  nothingthere 
But  silence,  and  scents  of  eglantare. 

And  jessamine  and  I'oses,  and  rosemary. 
And  they  said,  "As  a  lady  should  lie, 
lies  she." 

And  they  held  their  breath  as  they  left 

the  room 
With  a  shudder,  to  glance  at  its  stillness 

and  gloom. 

But  he  who  loved  her  too  well  to  dread 
The  sweet,  the  stately,  and  the  beautiful 
dead. 

He  lit  his  lamp  and  took  the  key 

And  turned  it.   Alone  again — he  and  she. 

He  and  she  ;  yet  she  would  not  speak, 
Though  he  kissed,  in  the  old  place,  the 
quiet  cheek. 

He  and  she ;  yet  they  would  not  smile. 
Though  he  called  her  the  name  she  loved 
erewhile. 


He  and  she ;  still  she  did  not  move 
To  any  one  passionate  whisper  of  love. 

Then  he  said:  "Cold  lips,  and  breast 

without  breath ! 
Is  there  no  voice  !  no  language  of  death  ? 

"Dumb  to  the  ear  and  still  to  the  sense, 
But  to  heart  and  soul  distinct,  intense  ? 

"See  now ;  I  will  listen  with  soul,  not  ear ; 
What  was  the  secret  of  dying,  dear  ? 

"Was  it  the  infinite  wonder  of  all 
That  you  ever  could  let  life's  flower  fall  ? 

"Or  was  it  a  gi'eater  marvel  to  feel 
The  perfect  calm  o'er  the  agony  steal? 

"Was  the  miracle  deeper  to  find  how  deep, 
Beyond  all  dreams,  sank  downward  that 
sleep  ? 

"Did  life  roll  back  its  record,  dear. 
And  show,  as  they  say  it  does,  past  things 
clear  ? 

"0  perfect  dead  !  0  dead  most  dear, 
I  hold  the  breath  of  my  soul  to  hear. 

"I  listen,  as  deep  as  to  horrible  hell. 
As  high  as  to  heaven,  and  you  do  not  tell ! 

' '  There  must  be  a  pleasure  in  dying,  sweet. 
To  make  you  so  placid  from  head  to  feet ! 

"I  would  tell  you,  darling,  if  I  were  dead, 
And  't  were  your  hot  tears  upon  my  brow 
shed; 

"I  would  say,  though  the  angel  of  death 

had  laid 
His  sword  on  my  lips  to  keep  it  unsaid. 

"You  should  not  ask  vainly,  with  stream- 
ing eyes, 

Which  of  ail  death's  was  the  chief  sur- 
prise ! 

"The  very  strangest  and  suddenest  thing, 
Of  all   the    surprises   that  dying  must 
bring." 

Ah,  foolish  world !  0  most  kind  dead  ! 
Though  he  told  me,  who  will  believe  it 
was  said? 


318 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Who  will  believe  what  he  heard  her  say, 
With  a  sweet,  soft  voice,  in  the  dear  old 
way? 

"The  utmost  wonder  is  this,  —  I  hear. 
And  see  you,  and  love  you,  and  kiss  you, 
dear. 

"  And  am  your  angel,  who  was  your  bride, 
And   know   that,  though   dead,  I    have 
never  died." 


JOHN  A.  DORaAN. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

FATE. 

These  withered  hands  are  weak, 

But  they  shall  do  my  bidding,  though 
so  frail ; 
These  lips  are  thin  and  white,  but  shall 
not  fail 
The  appointed  words  to  speak. 

Thy  sneer  I  can  forgive. 

Because  I  know  the  strength  of  destiny ; 
Until  my  task  is  done,  I  cannot  die ; 

And  then,  I  would  not  live. 


MAEY  BOLLES  BRANCH. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

THE  PETRIFIED  FERN. 

In  a  valley,  centuries  ago, 

Grew   a    little    fern-leaf,    green    and 

slender, 
Veining  delicate  and  fibres  tender ; 
Waving  when  the  wind  crept  down  so 

low; 
Rushes  tall,  and  moss,  and  grass  grew 

round  it, 
Playful  sunbeams  darted  in  and  found 

it. 
Drops  of  dew  stole  in  by  night,  and 

crowned  it, 
But   no   foot  of  man   e'er   trod  that 

way; 
Earth  was  young  and  keeping  holiday. 


Monster  fishes  swam  the  silent  main. 

Stately    forests    waved    their    giant 
branches. 

Mountains   hurled   their  snowy   ava- 
lanches, 
Mammoth  creatures  stalked  across  the 
plain ; 

Nature  revelled  in  gi'and  mysteries  ; 

But  the  little  fern  was  not  of  these. 

Did  not  number  with  the  hills  and 
trees. 

Only  grew  and  waved  its  wild  sweet 
way, 

No  one  came  to  note  it  day  by  day. 

Earth,  one  time,  put  on  a  frolic  mood, 
Heaved   the   rocks  and  changed   the 

mighty  motion 
Of  the  deep,   strong  currents  of  the 

ocean ; 
Moved  the  plain  and  shook  the  haughty 

wood. 
Crushed  the  little  fern  in  soft  moist 

clay. 
Covered  it,  and  hid  it  safe  away. 
O,  the  long,  long  centuries  since  that 

day! 
0,  the  agony,  0,  life's  bitter  cost. 
Since  that  useless  little  fern  was  lost ! 

Useless !     Lost !     There  came  a  thought- 
ful man 

Searching   Nature's   secrets,    far  and 
deep; 

From  a  fissure  in  a  rocky  steep 
He  withdrew  a  stone,  o'er  which  tliei'e 
ran 

Fairy  pencillings,  a  quaint  design, 

Veinings  leafage,  fibres  clear  and  fine. 

And  th(!  fern's  life  lay  in  every  line  ! 

So,   I    think,   God   hides   some   souls 
away. 

Sweetly  to  surjn-ise  us  the  last  day. 


UNKNOWN. 

UNSEEN. 

At  the  spring  of  an  arch  in  the  great 
north  tower, 
High   up  on  the  wall,  is  an  angel's 
heail ; 
And  beneath  it  is  carved  a  lily  flower, 
With  delicate  wings  at  the  side  out- 
spread. 


HAREIET   0.   NELSON. 


;io 


They  say  that  the  sculptor  wrought  from 
the  face 
Of  his  youth's  lost  love,  of  his  prom- 
ised bride, 
And  when  he  had  added  the  last  sad 
grace 
To  the  features,  he  di'opped  his  chisel 
and  died. 

And  the  worshippers  throng  to  the  shrine 
below, 
And  the  sight-seers  come  with  their 
curious  eyes. 
But  deep  in   the  shadow,   where   none 
may  know 
Its  beauty,  the  gem  of  his  carving  lies. 

Yet   at  early  morn  on  a   midsummer's 
day. 
When  the  sun  is  far  to  the  north,  for 
the  space 
Of  a  few  short  minutes,  there  falls  a  ray 
Through  an  amber  pane  on  the  angel's 
face. 

It  was  ^VTOught  for  the  eye  of  God,  and 
it  seems 
That  he  blesses  the  work  of  the  dead 
man's  hand 
With  a   ray  of  the   golden   light   that 
streams 
Ou   the   lost  that   are   found  in   the 
deathless  land. 


HAREIET  0.  NELSON. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

THE  QUIET  MEETING. 

Dear  friend  of  old,  whom  memory  links 
With  sunny  hour  and  sunmier  weather. 

Do  you  with  me  remember  yet 
That  Sabbath  morn  together, 

When  straying  from  our  wonted  ways, 
From  prayer  and   song  and   priestly 
teacher, 
Those  kind,  sweet  helps   by  which  the 
Lord 
Stoops  to  his  yearning  creature. 

And  led  by  some  faint  sense  of  need 
Which  each  in  each  perceived  unut- 
tered. 


Some  craving  for  an  unknown  good. 
That  in  the  spirit  fluttered. 

Our  footsteps  sought  the  humble  house 
Unmarked  by  cross  or  towering  steejile. 

Where  for  their  First-da}'^  gathering  came 
God's  plain  and  simple  people  ? 

The  air  was  soft,  the  sky  was  large. 
The  grass  as  gay  with  golden  flowers 

As  if  the  last  night's  sky  had  fallen 
On  earth  in  starry  showers. 

And,  as  we  walked,  the  apple-trees 
Shed  their  late  bloom  for  every  comer; 

Our  souls  drank  deep  of  joy  and  peace, 
For  it  was  youth  and  summer. 

Yet  through  the  doorway,  nule  and  low, 
The  plain -robed  folk  we  followed  after, 

Our  steps,  like  theirs,  demure  and  slow, 
Our  lips  as  free  from  laughter. 

We  sat  apart,  but  still  were  near 
As  souls  may  draw  unto  each  other 

Who  seek  through  stronger  love  to  God 
A  nobler  love  to  brother. 

How  deep  the  common  silence  was ; 

How  pure  and  sweet  those  woman  faces, 
Which  patience,  gentleness,  and  peace 

Had  stamped  with  heavenly  graces. 

Nonoiseofprayer  came  through  the  hush. 
No   piaise   sang  through  the  portals 
lowlj'. 

Save  merry  i)ird-songs  from  without. 
And  even  those  seemed  holy. 

Then  daily  toil  was  glorified. 

And  love  was  something  i-arer,  finer ; 

The    whole     earth,    sanctified    through 
Christ, 
And  human  life,  diviner. 

And  when  at  length,  by  lips  of  age. 
The  silent  hour  was  fitlj'  broken. 

Our  hearts  found  echo  in  the  words 
From  wise  experience  spoken. 

Then  at  the  elder's  clasp  of  hand 

We  rose  and  met  beneath  the  portal ; 

Some  earthly  dust  our  lives  had  lost. 
And  something  gained  immortal. 

Since  then,  when  semion,  psalm,  and  rite, 
And  solemn  organ's  tuneful  pealing. 


320 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTUKIES. 


All  fail  to  raise  my  sluggish  sense 
To  higher  thought  and  feeling, 

My  mind  goes  back  the  winding  track 
bfyearswhose  flight  hath  leftmelonely, 

Once  "more  my  soul  is  upward  drawn, 
And  hears  the  spirit  only. 


W.  J.  LINTON. 


MIDWINTER. 

Midwinter  comes  to-morrow 

My  welcome  guest  to  be ; 
White-haired,  wide-winged  sorrow, 

"With  Christmas  gifts  for  me. 
Thy  angel,  God !  — I  thank  thee  still, 
Thy  will  be  done,  thy  better  will ! 

I  thank  thee,  Lord  ! — the  whiteness 

Of  winter  on  my  heart 
Shall  keep  some  glint  of  brightness. 

Though  sun  and  stars  depart. 
Thou  smilest  on  the  snow ;  thy  will 
Is  dread  and  drear,  but  lovely  still. 


DEFINITIONS. 


The  perfect  sight  of  duty ;  thought  which 

moulds 
A  rounded  life,  and  its  true  aims  beholds. 

KEVERENCE. 

Obeisance  unto  greatness  understood ; 
The  first  step  of  a  human  life  toward  good. 


Tliink  what  God  doth  for  man  ;  so  mayst 

tliou  know 
How  godlike  service  is,  and  serve  also. 


The  shadow  of  a  slave  who  turns  his  back 
On  the  light,  and  cries,  "The  universe 
is  bl.ick ! " 


DOTJBT. 

The  moimtain's  image  trembling  in  the 

lake: 
Look  up.     Perhaps   the  mountain  does 

not  quake. 

DEFEAT. 

One  of  the  stairs  to  heaven.     Halt  not 

to  count 
What  you  have  trampled  on.     Look  up, 

and  mount. 

FAILURE. 

Who  knows? — Each  year,  as  does  the 

wheat-seed,  dies ; 
And  so  God  harvests  Ids  eternities. 


FORGIVENESS. 

The  condonation  of  a  wrong.  "WHiat 
then  ? 

Even  the  wrong-doers  are  our  brother- 
men  ! 

OBSTINACY. 

A  mule  with  blinkers.     Ay,  he  goes  quite 

straight, 
Runs  at  the  gate-post,  and  will  miss  the 

gate. 

PRUDENCE. 

The  saddle-girth  of  valor.    Thou  art  wise 
To  gird  it  well,  but  not  around  thy  eyes. 

PATRIOTISM. 

Not  the  mere  holding  a  great  flag  un- 
furled, 

But  making  it  the  goodliest  in  the 
world. 


NARROWNESS. 

Be  narrow  !  —  as  the  bud,  the  flame,  the 

dart ; 
But  narrow  in  thy  aim,  not  at  thy  heart. 


Cornelia's    jewels ;   blind    old    Milton's 

thought ; 
Job's  patience;  and  the  lesson  Lazarus 

taught. 


MARGARET  J.   PRESTON.  —  ERASTUS   W.   ELLSWORTH. 


521 


MAEGARET  J.  PRESTON. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

READY. 

I  WOULD  be  ready,  Lord, 

My  liouse  in  older  set, 
None  of  the  work  thou  gavest  me 

To  do,  unfinished  yet. 

I  would  be  watching,  Lord, 

With  lamp  well  trimmed  and  clear, 
Quick  to  throw  open  wide  the  door, 

What  time  thou  drawest  near, 

I  would  be  waiting.  Lord, 

Because  I  cannot  know 
If  in  the  night  or  morning  watch, 

I  may  be  called  to  go. 

I  would  be  working.  Lord, 
Each  day,  each  hour,  for  thee ; 

Assured  that  thus  I  wait  thee  well. 
Whene'er  thy  coming  be. 

I  would  he  living.  Lord, 

As  ever  in  thine  eye ; 
For  whoso  lives  the  nearest  thee 

The  fittest  is  to  die. 


A  BIRD'S  MINISTRY. 

Feom  his  home  in  an  Eastern  bungalow. 

In  sight  of  the  everlasting  snow 

Of  the  grand  Himalayas,  row  on  row, 

Thus  wrote  my  friend :  — 

"I  had  travelled  far 
From  the  Afghan  towers  of  C'andahar, 
Through  the  sand-white  plains  of  Sinde- 
Sagar ; 

"And  once,  when  the  daily  march  waso'er, 

As  tired  I  sat  in  my  tented  door, 

Hope  failed  me,  as  never  it  failed  before. 

"In  swarming  city,  at  wayside  fane, 
By  the  Indus'  bank,  on  the  scorching 

plain, 
I   had   taught, — and  my  teaching   all 

seemed  vain. 

"  'No  glimmerof  light  (I  sighed)  appears ; 
The  Moslem's  Fate  and  the  Buddhist's 
fears 

21 


Have  gloomed  their  worship  this  thou- 
sand years. 

"  'For  Christ  and  his  truth  I  stand  alone 
In  the  midst  of  millions :  a  saud-graii| 

blown 
Against  yon  temple  of  ancient  stone 

"'As  soon  may  level  it!'  Faith  fors.A't. 
My  soul,  as  I  turned  on  the  pile  to  J.iok: 
Then  rising,  my  saddened  way  I  tojk 

"To  its  lofty  roof,  for  the  cooler  air: 
I  gazed,  and  marvelled;— how  crumbled 

were 
The  walls  I  had  deemed  so  firm  and  fair ! 

"For,  wedged  in  a  rift  of  the  massive  stone, 
Most  plainly  rent  by  its  roots  alone, 
A  beautiful  peepul-tree  had  grown  : 

"Whose  gradual  stress  would  still  expand 
The  crevice,  and  topple  upon  the  sand 
The  temple,  while  o'er  its  wreck  should 
stand 

"The  tree  in  its  living  verdure  !  —  Who 
Could  compass  the  thought? — The  bird 

that  flew 
Hitherward,  dropping  a  seed  that  grew, 

"Did  more  to  shiver  this  ancient  wall 
Than  earthquake,  — war,  — simoon,  —  or 

all 
The  centuries,  in  their  lapse  and  fall ! 

"Then  I  knelt  by  the  riven  granite  there, 
And  my  soul  shook  off"  its  weight  of  care, 
As  my  voice  rose  clear  on  the  tropic  air :  — 

"  'The  living  seeds  I  have  dropped  remain 
In  the  cleft :  Lord,  quicken  with  dew  and 

rain, 
TJwn  temple  and  mosque  shall  be  rent 

in  twain!'" 


ERASTUS  W.  ELLS^\^ORTn. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

WHAT  IS  THE  USE? 

I  SAW  a  man,  by  some  accounted  wise, 
For  some  things  said  and  done  before 
their  eyes, 


322 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Quite  ov^ercast,  and  in  a  restless  muse, 
Pacing  a  path  about, 
Ami  often  giving  out : 
"What  is  the  use?" 

Then  I,  with  true  respect :  What  meanest 

thou 
By  those  strange  words,  and  that  unset- 
tled brow? 
Health,  wealth,  the  fair  esteem  of  ample 
views, 
To  these  things  thou  art  born 
But  he,  as  one  forlorn  : 
"What  is  the  use?" 

"I  have  surveyed  the  sages  and  their 

books, 
Man,  and  the  natural  world  of  woods  and 

brooks, 
Seeking  that  perfect  good  that  I  would 
choose ; 
But  find  no  perfect  good, 
Settled  and  understood. 
What  is  the  use  ? 

"Life,  in  a  poise,  hangs  trembling  on  the 

beam. 
Even  in  a  breathboundingtoeachextreme 
Of  joy  and  sorrow;  therefore  I  refuse 
AH  beaten  ways  of  bliss, 
And  only  answer  this : 
What  is  the  use  ? 

"The  hoodwinked  world  is  seeking  hap- 
piness. 
'AVhich  way!'  they  cry,   'here?'  'no!' 

'there?'  'who  can  guess?' 
And  so  they  grope,  and  grope,  and  grope, 
and  cruise 
On,  on,  till  life  is  lost. 
At  blindnian's  with  a  ghost. 
What  is  the  use  ? 

"Love  first,  with  most,  then  wealth,  dis- 
tinction, fame. 
Quicken  the  blood  and  spirit  on  the  game. 
Some  try  them  all,  and  all  alike  accuse : 
'I  have  been  all,'  said  one, 
'And  find  that  all  is  none.' 
What  is  the  use  ? 

"In  woman's  love  we  sweetly  are  undone, 
Willing  to  attract,  but  harder  to  be  won, 
Hardertokeepisshe  whose  love  we  choose. 

Loves  are  like  flowers  that  grow 

In  soils  on  lire  below. 
What  is  the  use  ? 


' '  Some  pray  for  wealth,  and  seem  to  pray 

aright ; 
They  heap  until  themselves  ai"e  out  of 

sight ; 
Yet  stand,  in  charities,  not  over  shoes, 
And  ask  of  their  old  age 
As  an  old  ledger  page, 
What  is  the  use  ?  .  .  .  . 

"The  strife  for  fame  and  the  high  praise 

of  power. 
Is  as  a  man,  who,  panting  up  a  tower. 
Bears  a  great  stone,  then,  straining  all  his 
thews. 
Heaves  it,  and  sees  it  make 
A  splashing  in  a  lake. 
What  is  the  use  ? .  .  .  . 

"Should  some  new  star,  in  the  fair  even- 
ing sky. 
Kindle  a  blaze,  startling  so  keen  an  eye 
Of  llamings  eminent,  athwart  the  dews. 
Our  thoughts  would  say.  No  doubt 
That  star  will  soon  burn  out. 
What  is  the  use  ? 

"Who'll  care  for  me,  when  I  am  dead 

and  gone  ? 
Not  many  now,  and  surely,  soon,  not  one ; 
And  should  I  sing  like  an  immortal  Muse, 
Men,  if  they  read  the  line, 
Eead  for  their  good,  not  mine ; 
What  is  the  use  ?  ...  . 

"Spirit  of  Beauty!     Breath  of  golden 

lyres ! 
Perpetual  tremble  of  immortal  wires  ! 
Divinely  torturing  rapture  of  the  Muse ! 
Conspicuous  wretchedness ! 
Thou  starry,  sole  success !  — 
What  is  the  use  ? 

' '  Doth  not  all  struggle  tell,  upon  its  brow, 
That  he  who  makes  it  is  not  easy  now, 
But  hopes  to  be  ?     Vain  hope  that  dost 
abuse  I 
Coquetting  with  thine  eyes. 
And  fooling  him  who  sighs. 
What  is  the  use  ? 

"Go  pry  the  lintels  of  the  pyramids; 
1  iift  the  old  kings' mysterious  (^oHiii -lids  — 
This  dust  was  theirs  whose  names  these 
stones  confuse. 
These  mighty  moTiuments 
Of  mighty  discontents. 
What  is  the  use  ? 


EEASTUS  W.   ELLS"\VOKTH. 


323 


"Did  not  hesnni  it  all,  whose  Gateof  Pearls 
Blazed    royal    Opliir,  Tyre,  aud   Syrian 

girls,— 
The  great,  wise,  famous  monarch  of  the 
Jews? 
Though  rolled  in  grandeur  vast, 
He  said  of  all,  at  last : 
What  is  the  use  ? 

"0,  hut  to  take,  of  life,  the  natural  good, 
Even  as  a  hermit  caverued  in  a  wood. 
More  sweetly  fills  my  sober-suited  views. 

Than  sweating  to  attain 

Any  luxurious  pain. 
What  is  the  use  ? 

"Give  me  a  hermit's  life,  without  his 

beads,  — 
His  lantern-jawed,  and  moral-mouthing 

creeds ; 
Systems   and   creeds   the  natural  heart 
abuse. 
What  need  of  any  book, 
Or  spiritual  crook  ? 
AVhat  is  the  use  ? 

"I  love,  and  God  is  love;  and  I  behold 
Man,  Nature,  God,  one   triple  chain  of 

gold,— 
Nature  in  all  sole  oracle  and  muse. 
What  should  I  seek,  at  all, 
More  than  is  natural  ? 
AVhat  is  the  use?" 

Seeing  this  man  so  heathenly  inclined,  — 
So  wilted  in  the  mood  of  a  good  mind, 
I  felt  a  kind  of  heat  of  earnest  thought; 
And  studying  in  reply. 
Answered  him,  ej^e  to  eye : 

Thou  dost  amaze  me  that  thou  dost  mis- 
take 
The  wanderingrivers  for  the  fountain  lake. 
What  is  the  end  of  li\'ing? — happiness? 

An  end  that  none  attain, 

Argues  a  purpose  vain. 

Plainly,  this  world  is  not  a  scope  for  bliss. 
But  duty.     Yet  we  see  not  all  that  is, 
Or  may  be,   some  day,  if  we  love  the 
light. 
What  man  is,  in  desires. 
Whispers  where  man  aspires. 

But  what  and  where  are  we  ?  what  now 
—  to-day? 


Souls  on  a  globe  that  spins  our  lives 

away,  — 
A   multitudinous  world,  where  Heaven 
and  Hell, 
Strangely  in  battle  met, 
Their  gonfalons  have  set. 

Dust  though  we  are,  and  shall  return  to 

dust, 
Yet  being  born  to  battles,  fight  we  must ; 
Under  which  ensign  is  our  only  choice. 

We  know  to  wage  our  best, 

God  only  knows  the  rest. 

Then  since  we  see  about  us  sin  and  dole, 
And  some  things   good,  why  not,  with 

hand  and  soul. 
Wrestle  and  succor  out  of  wrong  aud 
sorrow,  — 
Grasping  the  swords  of  strife. 
Making  the  most  of  life  ? 

Yea,  all  thatwe  can  wield  is  worth  the  end, 
If  sought  as  God's  and  man's  most  lo3'al 

friend. 
Naked  Ave  come  into  the  world,  aud  take 

Weapons  of  various  skill,  — • 

Let  us  not  use  them  ill. 

As   for  the   creeds,  Nature   is  dark  at 

best; 
And  darker  still  is  the  deeji  human  breast. 
Therefore   consider  well   of  creeds  and 
books. 
Lest  thou  mayst  somewhat  fail 
Of  things  beyond  the  vail. 

Nature  was  dark  to  the  dim  starry  age 
Of  wistful  Job  :  and  that  Athenian  sage. 
Pensive  in  piteous  thought   of  Faith's 
distress ; 
For  still  she  cried,  with  tears : 
"Mere  light,  ye  crystal  spheres !" 

But  rouse  thee,  man !     Shako   off  this 

hideous  death ! 
Be  man  !     Stand  up  !     Draw  in  a  mighty 

breath ! 
This  world  has  quite  enough  emasculate 
hands, 
Dallying  with  doubt  and  sin. 
Come — here  is  work — begin ! 

Come,  here  is  work  —  and  a  rank  field — 

begin. 
Put  thou  thine  edge  to  the  gi'eat  weeds 

of  sin ; 


524 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


So  shalt  thou  find  tlie  iise  of  life,  and  see 
Thy  Lord,  at  set  of  sun, 
Approach  and  say,  "Well  done  !" 

This  at  the  last :  They  clutch  the  sapless 

fruit, 
Ashes  and  dust  of  the  Dead  Sea,  who 

suit 
Their  course  of  life  to  compass  happiness ; 
But  be  it  understood 
That,  to  be  greatly  good, 
All  is  the  use. 


UNKNOWN. 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

(From  "The  London  Punch.") 

YoTJ  lay  a  wreath  on  murdered  Lincoln's 
bier. 
You,  who  with  mocking  pencil  wont 
to  trace. 
Broad   for   the   self-complacent    British 
sneer, 
His  length  of  shambling  limb,  his  fur- 
rowed face. 

His  gaunt,  gnarled  hands,  his  unkempt, 
bristling  hair, 
Hisgarb uncouth,  hisbearingill  at  ease. 
His  lack  of  all  we  ]»rize  as  debonair. 
Of  power  or  will  to  shiue,  of  art   to 
please. 

You,  whose  smart   pen  backed  up   the 
pencil's  laugh. 
Judging  each  step,  as  though  the  way 
were  plain ; 
Reckless,  so  it  could  point  its  paragraph, 
Of  chiefs  perplexity  or  people's  pain. 

Beside  this  corpse,  that  bears  for  wind- 
ing-sheet 
The  stars  and  stripes  he  lived  to  rear 
anew. 
Between  the  mourners  at  his  head  and 
feet, 
Say,  scurril -jester,  is  there  room   for 
you? 

Yes,  he  had  lived  to  shame  me  from  my 
sneer, 
To   lame   my  pencil,  and  confute  my 
pen,— 


To  make  me  own  this  hind  of  princes 
peer. 
This  rail-splitter  a  true-born  king  of 
men. 

Myshallow  judgment  I  had  learned  to  rue, 

Noting  how  to  occasion's  height  he  rose. 

How  his  quaint   wit   made   home-truth 

seem  more  true, 

How,  iron-like,  his    temper  grew  by 

blows. 

How  humble,  yet  howhopeful  he  could  be : 
How  in  good  fortune  and  in  ill  the 
same : 

Nor  bitter  in  success,  nor  boastful  he. 
Thirsty  for  gold,  nor  feverish  for  fame. 


He  went  about  his  work, — such  work 
as  few 
Ever  had  laid  on  head  and  heart  and 
hand,  — 
As  one  who  knows,  where  there  's  a  task 
to  do, 
Man's  honest  will  must  Heaven's  good 
gTace  command; 

Who  trusts  the  strength  will  with  the 
burden  grow. 
That  God  makes  instruments  to  work 
his  will. 
If  but  that  will  we  can  arrive  to  know. 
Nor  tamper  with  the  weights  of  good 
and  ill. 

So  he  went  forth  to  battle  on  the  side 
That  he  felt  clear  was  Liberty's  and 
Right's, 
As  in  his  peasant  boyhood  he  had  plied 
His  warfare  with  rude  Nature's  thwart- 
ing mights,  — 

The  uncleared  forest,  the  unbroken  soil. 
The  iron  bark  that  turns  the  lumbereis 
axe. 
The  rapid  that  o'erbears  the  boatman's 
toil. 
The  prairie,  hiding  the  mazed  wander- 
er's tracks. 

The  ambushed  Indian,  and  the  prowling 
bear,  — 
Such  were  the  needs  that  helped  his 
youth  to  train : 


MES.    mLES. 


325 


RougTi  culture, — but  such  trees  large 
fruit  may  bear, 
If  but  their  stocks  be  of  right  girth  and 
grain. 

So  he  grew  up,  a  destined  woi'k  to  do. 
And  lived  to  do  it ;  four  loug-sufiering 
years' 
111 -fate,     ill-feeling,     ill -report,    lived 
through. 
And  then  he  heard  the  hisses  change 
to  cheers. 

The  taunts  to  tribute,  the  abuse  to  praise. 
And  took  both  with  the  same  unwaver- 
ing mood : 
Till,  as  he  came  on  light,  from  darkling 
days, 
And  seemed  to  touch  the  goal   from 
where  he  stood, 

A  felon  had,  between  the  goal  and  him, 
Keached  from  behind  his  back,  a  trigger 
prest,  — 
And  those  perplexed  and   ])atient  eyes 
were  dim. 
Those  gaunt,  long-laboring  limbs  were 
laid  to  rest ! 

The  words  of  mercy  were  upon  his  lips, 
Forgiveness  in  his  heart  find  on  liis  pen, 
"When  this  vile  murderer  brought  swift 
eclipse 
To  thoughts  of  peace  on  earth,  good- 
will to  men. 

The  Old  World  and  the  New,  from  sea 
to  sea. 
Utter    one    voice    of    sympathy  and 
shame ! 
Sore  heart,  so  stopped  when  it  at  last 
beat  high ; 
Sad  life,  cut  short  just  as  its  triumph 
came. 

A  deed  accurst!  Strokes  have  been  struck 
before 
By  the  assassin's  hand,  whereof  men 
doubt 
If  more  of  horror  or  disgrace  they  bore ; 
But  thy  foul  crime,  like  Cain's,  stands 
darkly  out. 

Vile  hand,  that  brandest  murder  on  a 
strife, 
"Whate'er  its  grounds,  stoutly  and  nobly 
striven ; 


And  with  the  martyr's  crown  crownest  a 
life 
With  much  to  praise,  little  to  be  for- 
given. 


MRS.  MILES. 


HYMN  TO  CHRIST. 

TnoTT,  who  didst  stoop  below 

To  drain  the  cup  of  woe. 
Wearing  the  form  of  frail  mortality. 

Thy  blessed  labors  done. 

Thy  crown  of  victory  won, 
Hast    passed   from    earth, — passed    to 
thy  throne  on  high. 

Our  eyes  behold  thee  not, 
Yet  hast  thou  not  forgot 
Those  who  have  placed  their  hope,  their 
trust,  in  thee: 
Before  thy  Father's  face 
Thou  hast  prepared  a  jdace. 
That  where  thou  art,  there  may  they  also 
be. 

It  was  no  path  of  flowers. 
Through  this  dark  world  of  ours, 

Beloved  of  the  Father,  thou  didst  tread ; 
And  shall  we  in  dismay 
Shrink  from  the  narrow  way, 

When  clouds  and  darkness  are  around  it 
spread  ? 

0  Thou  who  art  our  life. 
Be  with  us  through  the  strife ; 
Was  not  thy  head  by  earth's  fierce  tem- 
pests bowed  ? 
Raise  thou  our  eyes  above 
To  see  a  Father's  love 
Beam,  like  a  bow  of  promise,  through  the 
cloud. 

E'en  through  the  awful  gloom. 
Which  hovers  o'er  tlie  tomb. 
That  light  of  love  our  guiding  star  shall 
be; 
Our  spirits  shall  not  dread 
The  sluidowj'  way  to  tread. 
Friend !  Guardian  !  Saviour !  which  doth 
lead  to  thee ! 


526 


SONGS  OF  THREE  CENTUEIES. 


F.  M.  FINCH. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY. 

By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river, 
Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  have  fled, 
Where  the  blades  of  the  grave-grass  quiver, 
Asleep  are  the  ranks  of  the  dead;  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
AVaiting  the  judgment  day  ;  — 
Under  the  one,  the  Blue ; 
Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours 
The  desolate  mourners  go. 
Lovingly  laden  with  flowers 
Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe;— 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  judgment  day ; — 
Under  the  roses,  the  Blue ; 
Under  the  lilies,  the  Gray. 

So  with  an  equal  splendor 
The  morning  sun-rays  fall. 
With  a  touch,  impartially  tender. 
On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all;  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew. 
Waiting  the  judgment  day ;  — 
'Broidered  with  gold,  the  Blue; 
Mellowed  with  gold,  the  Gray. 

So,  when  the  summer  calleth, 
On  forest  and  field  of  grain 
With  an  equal  murnmr  falleth 
The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain;  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew. 
Waiting  the  judgment  day ;  — 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue ; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 

Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding. 

The  generous  deed  was  done  ; 

In  the  storni  of  the  years  that  are  fading. 

No  braver  battle  was  won  ;  — 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew. 

Waiting  the  judgment  day ;  — 

Under  the  blossoms, the  Blue; 

Under  the  garlands,  the  Gray. 

No  more  shall  the  war-cry  sever, 

Or  the  winding  rivers  be  red ; 

They  banish  our  anger  forever 

When  they  laurel  the  graves  of  our  dead ! 


Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  judgment  day  ;- 
Love  and  tears  for  the  Blue, 
Tears  and  love  for  the  Gray. 


HENRY  ABBEY. 


THE  STATUE. 

In  Athens,  when  all  learning  centred 

there. 
Men  reared   a   column  of  surpassing 

height 
In  honor  of  Minerva,  wise  and  fair. 
And  on  the  top,  that  dwindled  to  the 

sight, 
A  statue  of  the  goddess  was  to  stand. 
That  wisdom  might  obtain  in  all  the 

land. 

And  he  who,  with  the  beauty  in  his  heart. 
Seeking   in   faultless   work    immortal 

youth, 
AVould  mould  this  statue  with  the  finest 

art. 
Making  the  wintry  marble  glow  with 

truth. 
Should  gain  the  prize.     Two  sculptors 

sought  the  fame ; 
The  prize  they  craved  was  an  enduring 

name. 

Alcaraenes  soon  carved  his  little  best ; 
But     Bhidias,     beneath    a     dazzling 
thought 
That  like  a  bright  sun  in  a  cloudless  west 
Lit  up  his  wide,  great  soul,  with  i)ure 
love  wrought 
A  statue,  and  its  face  of  changeless  stone 
With  calm,  far-sighted  wisdom  towered 
and  shone. 

Then  to  be  judged  the  labors  were  un- 
veiled ; 
But  at  the  marble  thought,  that    by 
degrees 

Of  hardship  Phidias  cut,  thepeople  railed. 
"The  lines  are  coarse;  the  form  too 
large,"  said  these  ;  , 

"And  he  who  sends  this  rough  result  of 
haste  ^^ 

Sends  scorn,  and  oilers  insult  to  our  taste. ' 


JOHN  BUREOUGIIS.  —  SAEAH   WOOLSEY. 


527 


Alcamenes'  praised  ■work  was  lifted  high 
U pontile  capital  where  it  might  stand  ; 
But  there  it  seemed  too  small,  aud  'gainst 
the  sky 
Had  no  i)roportion  from  the  uplooking 
land; 
So  it  was  lowered,  and  quickly  put  aside, 
Aud  the  scorned  thought  was  uiouuted 
to  be  tried. 

Surprise  swept  o'er  thefaces  of  the  crowd. 
And  changed  them  as  a  sudden  breeze 
may  change 
A  field  of  fickle  grass,  and  long  and  loud 
Their  mingled  shouts  to  see  a  sight  so 
strange. 
The  statue  stood  completed  in  its  place, 
Each  coarse   line  melted   to   a  line   of 
grace. 

So  bold,  great  actions,  that  are  seen  too 
near, 
Look  rash  and  foolish  to  unthinking 
eyes ; 

They  need  the  past  for  distance  to  ap- 
pear 
In  their  true  grandeur.     Let  us  yet  be 
wise 

And  not  too  soon  our  neighbor's  deed 
malign. 

For  what  seems  coai'se  is  often  good  and 
fine. 


JOHN  BUEEOUGHS. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

■WAITING. 

Serene,  I  fold  my  hands  and  wait, 
Nor  care  for  wind,  or  tide,  or  sea ; 

I  rave  no  more  'gainst  time  or  fate. 
For  lo  !  my  own  shall  come  to  me. 

I  stay  my  haste,  I  make  delays, 
For  what  avails  this  eager  pace  ? 

I  stand  amid  the  eternal  ways, 

And  what  is  mine  shall  know  my  face. 

Asleep,  awake,  by  night  or  day. 
The  friends  I  seek  are  seeking  me ; 

No  wind  can  drive  my  bark  astray, 
Nor  change  the  tide  of  destiny. 


"What  matter  if  I  stand  alone  ? 

I  wait  with  joy  the  coming  years ; 
My  heart  shall  reap  where  it  has  sown, 

And  gamer  up  its  fmit  of  tears. 

The  waters  know  their  own  and  draw 
Thebrook  that  springs  in  yonder  height; 

So  flows  the  good  with  equal  law 
Unto  the  soul  of  pure  delight. 

The  stars  come  nightly  to  the  sky  ; 

The  tidal  wave  unto  the  sea ; 
Nor  time,  nor  space,  nor  deep,  nor  high. 

Can  keep  my  own  away  from  me. 


SAEAH  WOOLSEY. 

[U.   S.   A.] 

IN  THE  MIST. 

Sitting  all  day  in  a  silver  mist, 
In  silver  silence  all  the  day. 
Save  for  the  low,  soft  hiss  of  sprny 

And  the  lisp  of  sands  by  waters  kissed, 
As  the  tide  draws  up  the  bay. 

Little  I  hear  and  nothing  I  see, 

Wrapped  in  that  veil  by  fairies  spun  ; 
The  solid  earth  is  vanished  for  me 
And  the  shining  hours  speed  noiselessly, 
A  woof  of  shadow  and  sun. 

Suddenly  out  of  the  shifting  veil 

A  magical  bark,  by  the  sunbeams  lit. 
Flits  like  a  dream  —  or  seems  to  flit — - 

With  a  golden  prow  and  a  gossamer  sail. 
And  the  waves  make  room  for  it. 

A  fair,  swift  bark  from  some  radiant  realm, 
Its  diamond  cordage  cuts  the  sky 
In  glittering  lines,  all  silently 

A  seeming  spirit  holds  the  helm 
And  steers.     Will  he  pass  me  by  ? 

Ah  !  not  for  me  is  the  vessel  here. 

Noiseless  and  swift  as  a  sea-bird's  flight 
She   swerves   and   vanishes  from  the 
sight ; 

No  flap  of  sail,  no  parting  cheer,  — 
She  has  passed  into  the  light. 

Sitting  some  day  in  a  deeper  mist, 
Silent,  alone,  some  other  day. 


528 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTUEIES. 


An  unknown  bark,  from  an  unknown 

bay, 
By  unknown  waters  kipped  and  kissed, 
Shall  near  lue  through  the  spray. 

No  flap  of  sail,  no  scraping  of  keel. 

Shadowy,  dim,  with  a  banner  dark. 
It  will  hover,  will  pause,  and  I  shall  feel 
A  hand  which  grasps  me,  and  shivering 
steal 
To  the  cold  strand,  and  embark. 

Embark  for  that  far,  mysterious  realm 
Where  the  fathomless,  trackless  waters 

flow. 
Shall  I  feel  a  Presence  dim,  and  know 
Thy  dear  hand.  Lord,  upon  the  helm. 

Nor  bo  afraid  to  go  ? 
And  through  black   waves  and  stormy 
blast 
And  out  of  the  fog-wreaths,  dense  and 

dun, 
Guided  by  thee,  shall  the  vessel  run, 
Gain  the  fair  haven,  night  being  past, 
And  anchor  in  the  sun  ? 


JOHN  JAMES  PIATT. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

THE  MORNING  STREET. 

Alone  I  walk  the  morning  street. 
Filled  with  the  silence  vague  and  sweet : 
All  seems  as  strange,  as  still,  as  dead, 
As  if  unnumbered  years  had  fled, 
Letting  the  noisy  Babel  lie 
Breathless  and  dumb  against  the  sky ; 
The  light  wind  walks  with  me  alone 
"Where  the  hot  day  Hame-like  was  blown. 
Where  the  wheels  roared,  the  dust  was 

beat ; 
The  dew  is  in  the  morning  street. 

AVhere  are  the  restless  throngs  that  pour 

Along  this  mighty  corridor 

While  the  noon  shines?— the  hurrying 

crowd 
Whose  footsteps  make  the  city  loud, — 
The  myriad  faces, — hearts  that  beat 
No  more  in  the  deserttid  street  ? 
Those  footsteps  in  their  dn;aming  maze 
Cross  thresholds  of  forgotten  days  ; 


Those  faces  brighten  from  the  years 
In  rising  suns  long  set  in  tears; 
Those  hearts,  —far  in  the  Past  they  beat, 
Unheard  within  the  morning  street. 

A  city  of  the  world's  gray  prime, 
Lost  in  some  desert  far  from  Time, 
Where  noiseless  ages,  gliding  through, 
Have  only  sifted  sand  and  dew,  — 
Yet  a  mysterious  hand  of  man 
Lying  on  all  the  haunted  plan. 
The  passions  of  the  human  heart 
(Quickening  the  marble  breast  of  Art,  — 
Were  not  more  strange  to  one  who  lirst 
Upon  its  ghostly  silence  burst 
Than  this  vast  quiet  where  the  tide 
Of  life,  upheaved  on  either  side. 
Hangs  trembling,  ready  soon  to  beat 
With  human  waves  the  morning  street. 
Ay,  soon  the  glowing  morning  flood 
Breaks  through  the  charmed  solitude  : 
This  silent  stone,  to  music  won, 
Shall  nnirmur  to  the  rising  sun  ; 
The  busy  place,  in  dust  and  heat. 
Shall  rush  with  wheels  and  swarm  with 

feet ; 
The  Arachne-threads  of  Purpose  stream 
Unseen  within  the  morning  gleam ; 
The  life  shall  move,  the  death  be  ])lain  ; 
The  bridal  throng,  the  funeral  train, 
Together,  face  to  f;ice,  shall  meet 
And  pass  within  the  morning  street. , 


EICHARD  W.  GILDER. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

DAWN. 

The  night  was  dark,  though  sometimes 

a  faint  star 
A  little  while  a  little  space  made  bright. 
The  night  was  long  and  like  an  iron 

bar 
Lay  heavy  on  the  land :  till  o'er  the  sea 
Slowly,  within  the   East,  there  grew  a 

light 
Which  half  wasstarlight,  and  half  seemed 

to  be 
The   herald    of    a   greater.      The    pale 

white 
Turned  slowly  to  pale  rose,  and  up  the 

height 
Of  heaven  slowly  climbed.     The  gray 

sea  grew 


WILLIAM  BELL   SCOTT. 


329 


Rose-colored  like  the  sky.  A  white  giill 
tiew 

Straight  toward  the  utmost  boundary  of 
the  East, 

Where  slowly  the  rose  gathered  and  in- 
creased. 

It  was  as  on  the  opening  of  a  door 

By  one  that  in  his  hand  a  lamp  doth 
hold, 

Whose  flame  is  hidden  by  the  garment's 
fold, — 

The  still  air  moves,  the  wide  room  is  less 
dim. 

More  blight  the  East  became,  the  ocean 
turned 

Dark  and  more  dark  against  the  bright- 
ening sky,  — 

Sharper  against  the  sky  the  long  sea  line. 

The  hollows  of  the  breakers  on  the  shore 

Were  green  like  leaves  whereon  no  sun 
doth  shine. 

Though  white  the  outer  branches  of  the 
tree. 

From  rose  to  red  the  level  heaven  burned ; 

Then  sudden,  as  if  a  sword  fell  from  on 
high, 

A  blade  of  gold  flashed  on  the  horizon's 
rim. 


THE  SOWER. 


A  Sower  went  forth  to  sow, 

His  eyes  were  wild  with  woe ; 

He  crushed  the  flowers  beneath  his  feet. 

Nor  smelt  the  peifume,  warm  and  sweet, 

That  prayed  for  pity  evei-ywhere. 

He  came  to  a  field  that  was  harried 

By  iron,  and  to  heaven  laid  bare : 

He  shook  the  seed  tliat  he  carried 

O'er  that  brown  and  Idadeless  place. 

He  shook  it,  as  God  shakes  hail 

Over  a  doomed  land. 

When  lightnings  interlace 

The  sky  and  the  earth,  and  his  wand 

Of  love  is  a  thunder-flail. 

Thus  did  that  Sower  sow ; 
His  seed  was  human  blood. 
And  tears  of  women  and  men. 
And  I,  who  near  him  stood. 
Said :  When  the  crop  comes,  then 
There  will  be  sobbing  and  sighing, 
Weeping  and  wailing  and  crying, 
And  a  woe  that  is  worse  than  woe. 


It  was  an  autumn  day 

When  next  1  went  that  way. 

And  what,  think  you,  did  1  see? 

What  was  it  that  I  heard? 

The  song  of  a  sweet- voiced  bird  ? 

Nay, — but  the  songs  of  many, 

Thrilled  through  with  i)raising  prayer. 

Of  all  those  voices  not  any 

Were  sad  of  memory : 

And  a  sea  of  sunlight  flowed, 

Aud  a  golden  harvest  glowed ! 

On  my  face  I  fell  down  there ; 
I  hid  my  wee})iiig  eyes, 
I  said :  O  God,  thou  art  wise ! 
And  I  thank  thee,  again  and  again, 
For  the  Sower  whose  name  is  Pain. 


WILLIAM  BELL  SCOTT. 

THE  DANCE. 

(From  "  The  Witch's  Ballad.") 

0,  I  HAE  come  from  far  away, 
From  a  warm  land  far  away, 
A  southern  land  ayoiit  the  sea. 
With  sailor  lads  about  the  mast 
Merry  and  canny  and  kind  to  me. 

And  I  hae  been  to  yon  town. 

To  try  my  luck  in  yon  town : 
Nort,  and  Mysie,  Elspie  too. 
Right  braw  we  were  to  ])ass  the  gate 
Wi'  gowden  clasjjs  on  girdles  blue. 

Mysie  smiled  wi'  miming  mouth, 

Innocent  mouth,  miming  mouth; 
Elspie  wore  her  scarlet  gown, 
Nort's  gray  e3'es  were  unco'  gleg. 
My  Castile  comb  was  like  a  crown. 

We  walked  abreast  all  up  the  street, 

Into  the  market  up  the  street : 
Our  hair  wi'  marygolds  was  wound. 
Our  bodices  wi'  love-knots  laced. 
Our  merchandise  wi'  tansy  bound. 

Nort  had  chickens,  I  had  cocks. 

Gamesome  cocks,  loud-crowing  cocks ; 
Mysie  ducks,  and  Elspie  drakes. 
For  a  wee  groat  or  a  pound. 
We  lost  nae  time  wi'  gives  and  takes. 


330 


SONGS   OF  TIIEEE   CENTURIES. 


Lost  nae  time,  for  weel  we  knew, 

In  onr  sleeves  fu'  weel  we  knew, 
When  the  gloaming  came  that  night. 
Duck  nor  drake,  nor  hen  nor  cock. 
Would  be  found  by  candlelight. 

When  our  chaffering  a'  was  done, 
All  was  paid  for,  sold  and  done, 
We  drew  a  glove  on  ilka  hand. 
We  sweetly  curtsied  each  to  each. 
And  deftly  danced  a  saraband. 

The  market  lasses  looked  and  laughed, 

Left  their  gear  and  looked  and  laughed ; 
They  made  as  they  would  join  the  game, 
But"soon  their  mithers,  wild  and  wild, 
Wi'  whack  and  screech  they  stopped  the 
same. 

Sae  loud  the  tongues  o'  raudies  grew. 

The  tiitiii'  and  the  skirlin'  grew. 
At  a'  the  windows  i'  the  place, 
Wi'  spoons  and  knives,  wi'  needle  or  awl, 
Was  thrust  out  ilka  hand  and  face. 

And  down  each  stair  they  thronged  anon ; 

Gentle,  simple,  thronged  anon ; 
Souter  and  tailor,  frowzy  Naii, 
The  ancient  widow  young  again 
Simpering  behind  her  fan. 

Without  choice,  against  their  will, 
Doited,  dazed  against  their  will. 
The  market  lassie  and  her  mither, 
The  farmer  and  his  husbandman. 
Hand  in  hand  danced  a'  thegether. 

Slow  at  first,  but  faster  soon, 

Still  increasin'  wild  and  fast, 
Hoods  and  mantles,  hats  and  hose. 
Blindly  doffed,  and  frae  them  cast. 
Left  them  naked,  heads  and  toes. 

They  would  hae  torn  us  limb  frae  limb, 

Dainty  limb  frae  dainty  limb ; 
But  never  ane  o'  them  could  win 
Across  the  line  that  1  had  drawn 
Wi'  bleeding  thumb  a-witherskin. 

There  was  Jeff  the  provost's  son, 

Jeff  the  provost's  only  son  ;  ^ 
There  was  Father  Auld  himsel', 
The  Lombard  frae  the  hostelrie, 
And  the  lawyer  Peter  Fell. 

All  goodly  men  we  singled  out. 
Waled  them  well  and  singled  out, 


And  drew  them  by  the  left  hand  in,  — 
Mysie  the  priest,  and  Elspie  won 
The  Lombard,  Nort  the  lawyer  curie. 
And  I  my  mysel'  the  provost's  son. 

Then  wi'  cantrip  kisses  seven. 

Three  times  round  wi'  kisses  seven, 
Warped  and  woven  there  spun  we, 
Arms  and  legs  and  flaming  hair, 
Like  a  whirlwind  on  the  sea. 

Like  the  wind  that  sucks  the  sea. 

Over  and  in  and  on  the  sea, 
Good  sooth,  it  was  a  mad  delight : 
And  ilka  man  o'  all  the  four 
Shut  his  eyes  and  laughed  outright,  — 

Laughed  as  long  as  they  had  breath. 

Laughed  while  they  had  sense  or  breath ; 
And  close  about  us  coiled  a  mist 
Of  gnats  and  midges,  wasps  and  flies ; 
Lik'e  the  whirlwind  shaft  it  rist. 

Drawn  up  was  I  right  off  my  feet, 

Into  the  mist  and  off  ray  feet ; 
And,  dancing  on  each  chimney-top, 
I  saw  a  thousand  darling  imps 
Keeping  time  wi'  skip  and  hop. 

We  '11  gang  ance  mair  to  yon  town, 

Wi'  better  luck  to  yon  town : 
We'll  walk  in  silk  and  cramoisie. 
And  I  shall  wed  the  prevost's  son ; 
My  lady  o'  the  town  1  '11  be ! 

For  I  was  born  a  crowned  king's  child, 

Born  and  nursed  a  king's  child, 
1  King  o'  a  land  ayont  the  sea. 
Where  the  Blackamoor  kissed  me  first 
And  taught  me  art  and  glamourie. 

The  Lombard  shall  be  Elsjne's  man, 

Elspie's  gowden  husbandman ; 
Nort  shall  take  the  lawyer's  hand ; 
The  priest  shall  swear  another  vow. 
We  '11  dance  again  the  saraband ! 


JOSEPH  BRENNAK 

COME  TO  ME,  DEAREST. 

Come  to  me,  dearest,  I'm  lonely  with- 
out thee, 

Day-time  and  night-time,  I  'm  thinking 
about  thee ; 


CHARLES   G.   LELAND. 


331 


Niglit-time  and   day-time,   in  dreams  I 

behold  thee ; 
Unwelcome  the  waking  which  ceases  to 

fold  thee. 
Come   to   me,    darling,    my  sorrows   to 

lighten, 
Conae   in    thy   beauty  to  bless  and  to 

brighten ; 
Come  in  thy  womanhood,  meekly  and 

lowly, 
Come  in  thy  loviugness,  queenly  and  holy. 

Swallows  will  flit  round  the  desolate 
ruin. 

Telling  of  spring  and  its  joyous  renew- 
ing 

And  thoughts  of  thy  love,  and  its  mani- 
fold treasure. 

Are  circling  my  heart  with  a  promise  of 
pleasure. 

0  Spring  of  my  spirit,  0  May  of  my  bosom, 
Shine  out  on  my  soul,  till  it  bourgeon 

and  blossom ; 
The  waste   of  my   life  has  a  rose-root 

within  it. 
And  thy  fondness  alone  to  the  sunshine 

can  win  it. 

Figure  that  moves  like  a  song  through 

the  even. 
Features  lit  up  by  a  reflex  of  heaven  ; 
Eyes  like   the  skies  of  poor  Erin,  our 

mother, 
Where  shadow  and  sunshine  are  chas- 
ing each  other ; 
Smiles  coming  seldom,  but  cliildlike  and 

simple. 
Planting   in    each   rosy   cheek   a  sweet 

dimple;  — 
0,  thanks  to  the  Saviour,  that  even  thy 

seeming 
Is   left   to   the   exile   to   brighten    his 

dreaming. 

You  have  been  glad  when  you  knew  I 

was  gladdened ; 
Dear,  are  you  sad  now  to   hear  I  am 

saddened  ? 
Our  hearts  ever  answer  in  tune  and  in 

time,  love, 
As  octave  to  octave,  and  rhyme  unto 

rhyme,  love : 

1  cannot  weep  but  your  tears  will  be 

flowing, 
You  cannot  smile  but  my  cheek  will  be 
glowing ;  | 


I  would  not  die  without  you  at  my  side, 

love. 
You  will  not  linger  when  I  shall  have 
died,  love. 

Come  to  me,  dear,  ere  I  die  of  my  sorrow, 
Rise  on  my  gloom  like  the  sun  of  to- 
morrow ; 
Strong,    swift,    and   fond  as   the  words 

which  I  speak,  love. 
With  a  song  on  your  lip  and  a  smile  on 

your  cheek,  love. 
Come,  for  my  heart  in  your  absence  is 

weary,  — 
Haste,    for   my  spirit  is   sickened   and 

dreary,  — 
Come  to  the  arms  which  alone  should 

caress  thee. 
Come  to  the  heart  that  is  throbbing  to 

press  thee  ! 


CHARLES  G.  LELAND. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

THE  MTJSIC-LESSON  OF  CONFUCIUS. 

The  music -lesson  of  Koung-tseu  the  wise, 
Known    as    Confucius    in    the    western 
world. 

Of  all  the  sages  of  the  Flowery  Land 
None  knew  so  well  as  great  Confucius 
The  ancient  rites ;  and  when  his  mother 

died. 
Three   years  he  mourned  alone   beside 

her  tomb 
As  the  Old  Custom  bade,  nor  did  he  miss 
A  single  detail  of  the  dark  old  forms 
Required  of  the   bereaved,  for  he   had 

made 
Himself  a  model  for  all  living  men  : 
A  mirror  and  a  pattern  of  the  Past. 

Now  when  the  years  of  mourning  with 

their  rites 
Were  at  an  end,  Confucius  came  forth 
And  wandered  as  of  old  with  other  men. 
Giving  his  counsel  unto  many  kings ; 
But  still  the  hand  of  grief  w^as  on  his 

heart. 
And  his  dark  hue  set  forth  his  darkened 

hours. 
To  drive  away  these  sorrows  from  his 

soul, 


532 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Eeinembcring  that  music  had  been  made 
A  moral  motive  in  tlie  golden  books 
Of  wistlom  by  th(!  sacred  ancestors, 
He  played  upon  the  Kin  —  the  curious 

lute 
Invented  by  Fou-Hi  in  days  of  old ; 
Fou-Hi  of  the  bull's  head  and  dragon's 

form, 
The    Lord    of   Learning    who    upraised 

mankind 
From  being  silent  brutes  to  singing  men. 

In  vain  .Confucius  played  upon  the  lute ; 
He  found  that  music  would  not  be  to 

hinr 
"What  it  had  been  of  old,  —  a  pastime 

gay: 
For  he  had  borne  through  three  long 

years  of  grief 
Stupendous  knowledge,  and  his  mighty 

soul. 
Grasping  the  lines  which  link  all  earthly 

lore. 
Had  been  by  suffering  raised  to  greater 

power : 
For  he  who  knows  and  suffers,  if  he  will 
May   raise   himself   unnumbered   scales 

o'er  man. 

The  music   spoke  no  more  its  wonted 

sounds, 
But   whispered   mysteries   in  a  broken 

tongue 
Which  urged   him  sorely.     Then  Con- 
fucius said : 
"  0  secret  Music  !  sacred  tongue  of  God ! 
I  hear  thee  calling  to  me,  and  I  come  ! 
Of  old  I  did  but  know  thy  outei'  form. 
And    dreamed    not    of   the    sjjirit    hid 

within ; 
The  Goddess  in  the  Lotus.     Yes,  I  come. 
And  will  not  rest,  —  nor  will  1  calm  my 

doubt 
Till  I  have  seen  thee  plainly  with  mine 

eyes, 
And  palpably  have  touched  thee  with 

my  hand. 
Then  sliall  I  know  thee,  —  raised  to  life 

for  me 
For  what  thou  truly  art. 

Lo  !  I  have  heard 
That  in  the  land  of  Kin  a  master  lives. 
So  deeply  skilled  in  music,  that  mankind 
Begin  again  to  give  a  glowiiig  faith 
Unto  the  golden  stories  which  are  told 
Of  the  strange  harmonies  which   built 

the  world, 


And  of  the  melody  whose  key  is  God. 
Now  I  will  travel  to  the  land  of  Kin, 
And    know   this   sage   of   music,    great 

Siang, 
And  learn  the  secret  lore   which  hides 

within 
All   sweet    well-ordered    sounds."      Ho 

went  his  way. 
Nor  rested  till  he  stood  before  the  man. 

Thus  spoke  Siang  unto  Confucius  : 
"Of  all  the  arts,  great  Music  is  the  art 
To  raise  the  soul  above  all  earthly  storms ; 
For  in  it  lies  that  purest  harmony 
Which    lifts    us   over   self    and   up   to 

God. 
Thou  who  hast  studied  deejil)' the  ^c;m« — 
The    eight    great    symbols    of    created 

things  — 
Knowest  the  sacred  power  of  the  line 
Which   when   unbroken  flies  to  all  the 

worlds 
As  light  unending,  — but  in  broken  forms 
Falls   short   as   sky   and   earth,  clouds, 

winds,  and  fire, 
The  deep  blue  ocean  and  the  mountain 

high. 
And  the  red  lightning  hissing  in  the  wave. 
The  mighty  law  which  formed  what  thou 

canst  see. 
As  clearly  lives  in  all  that  thou   canst 

hear. 
And  more  than  this,  in   all   that   thou 

canst  feel. 
Here,  take  thy  lute   in  hand.     I  teach 

the  air 
Made  by  the  sage  Wen  Wang  of  ancient 

days." 

Confucius  took  the  lute  and  pla3'cd  the 

air 
Till  all   his   soul   seemed   passing  into 

song ; 
Then  he  fell  deep  into  the  solemn  chords 
As  though  his  body  and  the  lute  were 

one. 
And  every  chord  a  wave  which  bore  him 

on 
Through  the  great  sea  of  ecstasy.     His 

hands 
Then  ceased  to  play,  — but  in  his  raptured 

look 
They  saw  him  following  out  the  harmony. 

Five  days  went  liy,  and  still  Confucius 
Played  all  day  long  the  ancient  simple 
air: 


CHARLES   G.   LELAND, 


333 


And  when  Siang  would  teach  him  more, 

he  Siiid: 
"Not  yet,  my  master,  I  would  seize  the 

thoiujht. 
The  subtle  tliought  which  hides  within 

the  tune." 
To  which  the  master  answered:  "It  is 

well. 
Take  five  days  more!"     And  when  the 

time  was  passed 
Unto  Siaug  thus  spoke  Confucius : 
"1  do  begin  to  see,  —  yet  what  I  see 
Is  very  dim.     I  am  as  one  who  looks 
And    nothing  sees   except   a   luminous 

cloud : 
Give  me  but  five  more  days,  and  at  the 

end 
If  I  have  not  attained  the  great  idea 
H  iiklen  of  old  within  the  melody, 
1  will  leave  music  as  beyond  my  power." 
"Do  as  thou  wilt,  0  pupil !"  cried  Siang 
I  n  deepest  admiration  ;   ' '  never  yet 
Had  I  a  scholar  who  was  like  to  thee." 

And  on  the  fifteenth  day  Confucius  rose 
Awi].  stood  before  Siang,  and  cried  aloud  : 
"The  mist  which  shadowed  lue  is  blown 

away, 
I  am  as  one  who  stands  upon  a  cliff 
And  gazes  far  and  wide  upon  the  world. 
For  I  have  mastered  every  secret  thought. 
Yea,  every  shadow  of  a  feeling  dim 
"Which  flitted  through  the  spirit  of  Wen 

Wang 
When  lie  composed  that  air.     I  speak  to 

him, 
I  liear  him  clearly  answer  me  again  ; 
And  more  than  that,  I  see  his  very  form : 
A  man  of  middle  stature,  with  a  hue 
Half  blended  with  the  dark  and  with  the 

fair; 
His  features  long,  and  large  sweet  ej'es 

which  beam 
With  great  benevolence,  — a  noble  face ! 
His  voice  is  deep  and  full,  and  all  his  air 
Inspires  a  sense  of  virtue  and  of  love. 
I  know  that  I  behold  the  very  man. 
The  sage  of  ancient  days.  Wen  Wang  the 

just." 

Tiien  good  Siang  lay  down  upon  the  dust. 
And  said :  "  Thou  art  my  master.    Even 

thus 
The  ancient  legend,  known  to  none  but 

me. 
Describes  our  first  great  sire.    And  thou 

hast  seen 


That  which  I  never  }'et  mj^self  beheld, 
Though  1  have  played  the  sacred  song 

for  years, 
Striving  with  all  my  soul  to  penetrate 
Its  mystery  unto  the  master's  form. 
Whilst  thou  hast  reached  it  at  a  single 

bound : — 
Henceforth  the  gods  alone  can  teach  thee 

tune." 


MINE  OWN. 

And  0,  the  longing,  burning  eyes  ! 

And  0,  the  gleaming  hair 
Which  waves  around  me,  night  and  day, 

O'er  chamber,  hall,  and  stair ! 

And  0,  the  step,  half  dreamt,  half  heard ! 

And  0,  the  laughter  low  ! 
And  memories  of  merriment 

Which  faded  long  ago ! 

0,  art  thou  Sylph, — or  truly  Self, — 

Or  either  at  thy  choice  ? 
0,  speak  in  breeze  or  beating  heart, 

But  let  me  hear  thy  voice ! 

"0,  some  do  call  me  Laughter,  love; 

And  some  do  call  me  Sin"  : — 
"And  they  may  call  thee  what  they  will, 

So  I  thy  love  may  win. 

"And  some  do  call  me  Wantonness, 
And  some  do  call  me  Play"  :  — 

"0,  they  might  call  thee  what  they  would 
If  thou  wert  mine  alway !  " 

"And  some  do  call  me  Sorrow,  love, 

And  some  do  call  me  Tears, 
And  some  there  be  who  name  me  Hope, 

And  some  that  name  me  Fears. 

"And  some  do  call  me  Gentle  Heart, 
And  some  Forgetfulness"  :  — 

"And  if  thou  coni'st  as  one  or  all, 
Thou  comest  but  to  bless  !" 

"And  some  do  call  me  Life,  sweetheart, 
And  some  do  call  me  Death ; 

And  he  to  whom  the  two  are  one 
Has  won  my  heart  and  faith." 

She  twined  her  white   arms   round   his 
neck :  — 

The  tears  fell  down  like  rain. 
"And  if  I  live  or  if  I  die. 

We'll  never  part  again." 


334 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


HELEN  BARRON  BOSTWICK. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

URVASI. 

'T  IS  a  story  told  by  Kalidasa,  — 
Hindoo  poet, — in  melodious  rhyme, 

How  with  train  of  maidens,  young  Urvasi 
Came  to  keep  great  Indra's  festal  time. 

'T  was  her  part  in  worshipful  confession 
Of  the  god-name  on  that  sacred  day. 

Walking  tlower-crowned  in  the  long  pro- 
cession, 
"I  love  Puru-shotta-ma"  to  say. 

Pure  as  snow  on  Himalayan  ranges, 
Heaven -descended,   soon    to    heaven 
withdrawn. 
Fairer    than    the    moon-flower    of    the 
Ganges, 
Was  Urvasi,  Daughter  of  the  Dawn. 

But  it  happened  that  the  gentle  maiden 
Loved  one  Puru-avas,  — fateful  name  ! — 

And  her  heart,  with  its  sweet  secret  laden. 
Faltered  when  her  time  of  utterance 
came. 

"I  love" — then  she  stopped,  and  peojile 
wondered ; 
"I  love"  —  she  must  guard  her  secret 
well ; 
Then  from  sweetest  lips  that  ever  hlun- 
dered, 
"I  love  Puru-avas, "  trembling  fell. 

Ah,  what  terror  seized  on  poor  Urvasi ! 

Misty  grew  the  violets  of  her  eyes. 
And  her  form  bent  like  a  broken  daisy, 

Wliile  around  her  rose  the  mocking 


But  great  Indra  said,  "The  maid  shall 
marry 
Him  whose  image  in  her  faithful  heart 
She  so  near  to  that  of  God  doth  carry. 
Scarce  her  li^js  can  keep  their  names 
ajmrt." 

Call  it  then  not   weakness  or  dissem- 

If,  in  striving  the  higli  name  to  reach. 
Through   our   voices    runs    the    tender 

trembling 
Of    an    cartlily   name    too    dear    for 

speech ! 


Ever  dwells  the  lesser  in  the  greater; 

In  God's  love  tlie  liuman  :  we  by  these 
Know  he  holds  Love's  simplest  stam- 
mering sweeter 

Than  cold  praise  of  wordy  Pharisees. 


UNKNOWN. 

THE  FISHERMAN'S  FUNERAL. 

Up  on  the  breezy  headland  the  fisher- 
man's grave  they  made, 

Where,  over  the  daisies  and  clover  bells, 
the  birchen  branches  swayed ; 

Above  us  the  lark  was  singing  in  the 
cloudless  skies  of  June, 

And  under  the  cliffs  the  billows  were 
chanting  their  ceaseless  tune : 

For  the  creamy  line  was  curving  along 
the  hollow  shore, 

Where  the  dear  old  tides  were  flowing 
tliat  he  would  ride  no  more. 

The  dirge  of  the  wave,  the  note  of  the  bird, 
and  the  priest's  low  tone  were  blent 

In  the  breeze  that  blew  from  the  moor- 
land, all  laden  with  country  scent ; 

But  never  a  thouglit  of  the  new-mown 
hay  tossing  on  sunny  plains. 

Or  of  lilies  deep  in  the  wild-wood,  or 
roses  gemming  the  lanes, 

Woke  in  the  hearts  of  the  stern  bronzed 
men  who  gathered  around  tlie 
grave, 

Where  lay  the  mate  who  had  fought  with 
them  the  battle  of  wind  and  wave. 

How  boldly  he  steered  the  coble  across 

the  foaming  bar. 
When  the  sky  was  black  to  the  eastward 

and  the  breakers  white  on  the  Scar ! 
How  his  keen  eye  caught  the  squall  aliead, 

how  his  strong  hand  furled  thesail. 
As  we  drove  o'er  the  angry  waters  before 

the  raging  gale ! 
How  cheery  he  kept  all  the  long  dark 

night ;  and  never  a  parson  sjioke 
Good  words,  like  those  he   said   to   us, 

when  at  last  the  morning  broke ! 

So  thought  the  dead  man's  comrades,  as 
silent  and  sad  they  stood, 

While  the  prayer  was  ]irayed,  the  blessing 
said,  and  the  dull  earth  struck  the 
wood ; 


UNKNOWN. 


335 


And  the  ■widow's  sob  and  the  orphan's 

wail  janed  through  the  joyous  air ; 
How  couhl  tlie  light  wind  o'er  the  sea, 

blow  on  so  fresh  and  fair  ? 
How  could  the  gay  waves  laugh  and  leap, 

landward  o'er  sand  and  stone, 
While   he,  who   knew  and  loved  them 

all  lay  lapped  in  clay  alone  ? 

But  for  long,  when  to  the  beetling  heights 

the  snow-tipped  billows  roll. 
When  the  cod,  and  skate,  and  dogfish  dart 

ai'ound  the  herring  shoal ; 
When  gear  is  sorted,  and  sails  are  set, 

and  the  merry  breezes  blow. 
And  away  to  the  deep  sea-harvest  the 

stalwart  reapers  go, 
A  kindly  sigh,  and  a  hearty  word,  they 

will  give  to  him  who  lies 
Where  the  clover  springs,  and  the  heather 

blooms,  beneath  the  northern  skies. 


TJKKKOWN. 

ON  RECROSSING  THE  ROCKY  MOUN- 
TAINS IN  WINTER,  AFTER  MANY 
YEARS. 

LoxG  years  ago  I  wandered  here, 
In  the  midsummer  of  the  year, — 

Life's  summer  too ; 
A  score  of  horsemen  here  we  rode, 
Tlw.  mountain  world  its  glories  showed, 

All  fair  to  view. 

These  scenes  in  glowing  colors  drest, 
Mirrored  the  life  within  my  breast, 

Its  world  of  hopes ; 
The  whispering  woods  and  fragrant  breeze 
That  stirred  the  grass  in  verdant  seas 

On  billowy  slopes. 

And  glistening  crag  in  sunlit  sky. 

Mid  snowy  clouds  piled  mountains  high. 

Were  joys  to  me ; 
My  path  was  o'er  the  prairie  wide, 
Or  here  on  grander  mountain-side, 

To  choose,  all  free. 

The  rose  that  waved  in  morning  air, 
And  spread  its  dewy  fragrance  thei'e 

In  careless  bloom, 
Gave  to  my  heart  its  ruddiest  hue, 
O'er  my  glad  life  its  color  threw 

And  sweet  perfume. 


Now  changed  the  scene  and  changed  the 

eyes, 
That  here  once  looked  on  glowing  skies, 

Where  summer  smiled  ; 
These  riven  trees,  this  wind-swept  plain. 
Now  show  the  wintei-'s  dread  domain, 

Its  fury  wild. 

The  rocks  rise  black  from  storm-packed 

snow. 
All  checked  the  river's  pleasant  flow. 

Vanished  the  bloom ; 
These  dreary  wastes  of  frozen  plain 
Reflect  my  bosom's  life  again, 

Now  lonesome  gloom. 

The  buoj'ant  hopes  and  busy  life 
Have  ended  all  in  hateful  strife, 

And  thwarted  aim. 
The  world's  rude  contact  killed  the  rose, 
No  more  its  radiant  color  shows 

False  roads  to  fame. 

Backward,  amidst  the  twilight  glow 
Some  lingering  spots  yet  brightly  show 

On  hard  roads  won, 
Where  still  some  grandpeaks  mark  the  way 
Touched  by  the  light  of  parting  day 

And  memory's  sun. 

But  here  thick  clouds  the  mountainshide. 
The  dim  horizon  bleak  and  wide 

No  pathway  shows. 
And  rising  gusts,  and  darkening  sky, 
Tell  of  "the  night  that  cometh,"  nigh, 

The  brief  day's  close. 


UNKNOWN. 


JULY  DAWNING. 

We  left  the  city,  street  and  square, 
With  lamplights  glimmering  tlirough 
and  through, 
And    turned    us    toward    the    suburb, 
where — 
Full  from  the  east — the  fresh  wind 
blew. 

One  cloud  stood  overhead  the  sun,  — 
A  glorious  trail  of  dome  and  sjiire,  — 

The  last  star  flickered,  and  was  gone ; 
The  first  lark  led  the  matin  choir. 


336 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Wot  was  t\v  grass  honcatli  onr  tread, 
Thick-cU'wed  the  bramble  by  tlieway; 

The  lichen  had  a  lovelier  red, 
The  elder-flower  a  fairer  gray. 

And  there  was  silence  on  the  land, 
Save  when,  from  out  the  city's  fold, 

Stricken  by  Time's  remorseless  wand, 
A  bell  across  the  morning  tolled. 

The  beeches  sighed  through   all   their 
boughs ; 

The  gusty  pennons  of  the  pine 
Swayed  in  a  melancholy  drowse, 

But  with  a  motion  sternly  fine. 

One  gable,  full  against  the  sun. 
Flooded  the  garden-space  beneath 

With  spices,  sweet  as  cinnamon. 
From  all  its  honeysuckled  breath. 

Then  crew  the  cocks  from  echoing  farms. 
The  chimney-tops  were  plumed  M'ith 
smoke. 

The  windmill  shook  its  slanted  arms. 
The  sun  was  up,  the  country  woke ! 

And  voices  sounded  mid  the  trees 
Of  orchards  red  with  burning  leaves, 

By  thick  hives,  sentinelled  by  bees,  — 
From   fields  which  promised    tented 
sheaves ; 

Till  the  day  waxed  into  excess, 

And  on  the  misty,  rounding  gray, — 

One  vast,  fixntastic  wilderness. 
The  glowing  roofs  of  Loudon  lay. 


UNKNOWN. 

THE  FISHERMAN'S  SUMMONS. 

The  sea  is  calling,  calling. 

Wife,  is  there  a  log  to  sjiare? 

Fling  it  down  on  the  hearth  and  call 

them  in. 
The  boys  and  girls  with  their  merry  din, 
I  am  loth  to  leave  you  all  just  yet. 
In  the  light  and  the  noise  I  might  forget, 
The  voice  in  the  evening  ail'. 

The  sea  is  calling,  calling, 

Along  the  hollow  shore. 

1  know  each  nook  in  the  rocky  strand, 

And  the  crimson  weedsonthegoldeu  sand, 


And  the  worn  old  cliff  where  the  sea- 
pinks  cling. 

And  the  winding  caves  where  the  echoes 
ring. 

I  shall  wake  them  nevermore. 

How  it  keeps  calling,  calling, 

It  is  never  a  night  to  sail. 

I  saw  the  "sea-dog"  over  the  height, 

As  I  strained  through  the  haze  my  jfail- 
ing  sight. 

And  the  cottage  creaks  and  rocks,  well- 
nigh. 

As  the  old  "  Fox  "  did  in  the  days  gone  by, 

In  the  moan  of  the  rising  gale. 

Yet  it  is  calling,  calling. 

It  is  hai'd  on  a  soul,  I  say, 

To  go  fluttering  out  in  the  cold  and  the 

dark. 
Like  the  bird  they  tell  us  of,  from  the 

ark; 
While  the  foam  flies  thick  on  the  bitter 

blast, 
And  the  angry  waves  roll  fierce  and  fast, 
Where  the  black  buoy  marks  the  bay. 

Do  you  hear  it  calling,  calling? 
And  yet,  I  am  none  so  old. 
At  the  herring  fishery,  but  last  J'ear, 
No  boat  beat  mine  for  tackle  and  gear, 
And  I  steered  the  coble  past  the  reef. 
When  the  broad  sail  shook  like  a  with- 
ered leaf, 
And  the  rudder  chafed  my  hold. 

Will  it  never  stop  calling,  calling  ? 
Can't  you  sing  a  song  by  the  hearth? 
A  heartsome  stave  of  a  merry  glass. 
Or  a  gallant  fight,  or  a  bonuie  lass? 
Don't  you  care  for  your  grand-dad  just 

so  much? 
Come  near  then,  give  me  a  hand  to  touch. 
Still  warm  with  the  warmtli  of  earth. 

You  hear  it  calling,  calling? 

Ask  her  why  she  sits  and  cries. 

She  always  did  when  the  sea  was  up. 

She  would  fret,  and  never  take  bit  or  sup 

When  I  and  the  lads  were  out  at  night. 

And  she  saw  the  breakers  cresting  white 

Beneath  the  low  black  skies. 

But,  then,  it  is  calling,  calling. 

No  summons  to  soul  was  s(!nt. 

Now —    Well,  fetch  the  parson,  find  the 

book. 
It  is  up  on  the  shelf  there  if  you  look ; 


MARY   N.    PRESCOTT. — ARTHUR   O'SHAUGHNESSY. 


337 


The  sea  has  been  friend,  and  fire,  and 

bread ; 
Put  me,  where  it  will  tell  of  me,  Ij'ing 

dead, 
How  It  called,  aud  I  rose  and  went. 


MAEY  N.  PRESCOTT. 


[U.    S.    A.] 


"WORK. 


Sweet  wind,  fair  wind,  where  have  yon 

been  ? 
"I  've  been  sweeping  the  cobwebs  out  of 

the  sky ; 
I  've  been  grinding  a  grist  in  the  mill 

hard  by; 
I  've  been  laughing  at  work  while  others 

sigh ; 
Let  those  laugh  who  win  !" 

Sweet  rain,  soft  rain,  what  are  you  doing? 
' '  I  'm  urging  the  corn  to  fill  out  its  cells ; 
I  'm  helping  the  lily  to  fashion  its  bells ; 
I  'm  swelling  the  torrent  and  brimming 
the  wells ; 
Is  that  worth  pursuing?" 

Redbreast,  redbreast,  what  have  you  done? 
"  I  've  been  watching  the  nest  where  my 

fledgelings  lie ; 
I  've  sung  them  to  sleep  with  a  lullaby ; 
By  and  by  I  shall  teach  them  to  fly, 
Up  and  away,  every  one  !" 

Honey-bee,  honey-bee,  where  are  you  go- 
ing? 
"To  fill  my  basket  with  precious  pelf; 
To  toil  for  mj'  neighbor  as  well  as  mj'self ; 
To  find  out  the  sweetest  flower  that  grows. 
Be  it  a  thistle  or  be  it  a  rose,  — 

A  secret  worth  the  knowing!" 

Each  content  with  the  work  to  be  done, 
Ever  the  same  from  sun  to  sun : 
Shall  you  and  I  be  taught  to  work 
By  the  bee  and  the  bird,  that  scorn  to 
shirk? 

"Wind  and  rain  fulfilling  His  word ! 

Tell  me,  was  ever  a  legend  heard 

Where  the  wind,  commanded  to  blow, 
defen-ed ; 

Or  the  rain,  that  was  bidden  to  fall,  de- 
murred ? 

22 


TWO  MOODS. 

I  PLUCKED  the  harebells  as  I  went 

Singing  along  the  river-side ; 

The  skies  above  were  opulent 

Of  sunshine.      "Ah!  wdiate'er  betide, 

The  world  is  sweet,  is  sweet,"  I  cried, 

That  morning  by  the  river-side. 

The  curlews  called  along  the  shore ; 
The  boats  put  out  from  sandy  beach; 
Afar  I  heard  the  breakers'  roar. 
Mellowed  to  silver-sounding  speech ; 
And  still  I  sang  it  o'er  and  o'er, 
"The  world  is  sweet  forevermore!" 

Perhaps,  to-day,  some  other  one, 
Loiteiing  along  the  river-side, 
Content  beneath  the  gracious  sun, 
May  sing,  again,, "  Whate'er  betide, 
The  world  is  sweet."     I  shall  not  chide, 
Although  my  song  is  done. 


ARTHUR  O'SHAUGHNESSY. 

SONG  OF  A  FELLOW-WORKEB. 

I  FOUND  a  fellow-worker  when  I  deemed 

I  toiled  alone  : 
My   toil   was   fashioning    thought   and 

sound,  and  his  was  hewing  stone ; 
I  worked  in  the  palace  of  my  brain,  he 

in  the  common  street, 
And  it  seemed  his  toil  was  great  and  hard, 

while  mine  was  great  and  sweet. 

I  said,"0  fellow- worker,  yea,  for  I  am  a 

w'orker  too. 
The  heart  nigh  fails  me  many  a  day,  but 

how  is  it  with  you  ? 
For  while  I  toil  great  tears  of  joy  will 

sometimes  fill  my  eyes, 
Aud  when  I  form  my  perfect  work  it  lives 

and  never  dies. 

"I  carve  the  marble  of  pure  thought  until 

the  thought  takes  form. 
Until  it  gleams  before  my  soul  and  makes 

the  world  grow  warm  ; 
Until  there  conies  the  glorious  voice  and 

words  that  seem  divine, 
And  the  music  reaches  all  men's  hearts 

and  draws  them  into  mine. 


338 


SONGS   OF  THKEE   CENTUKIES. 


"And  yet  for  da}'s  it  seems  my  heart  shall 

blossom  never  more, 
And  the  burden  of  my  loneliness  lies  on 

me  very  sore : 
Therefore,  0   hewer  of  the  stones   that 

pave  base  human  ways, 
How  canst  thou  bear  the  years  till  death, 

made  of  such  thankless  days?" 

Then  he  replied:  "Ere  sunrise,  when  the 

pale  lips  of  the  day 
Sent  forth  an  earnest  thrill  of  breath  at 

warmth  of  the  first  ray, 
A  great  thought  rose  within  me,  how, 

while  men  asleep  had  lain, 
Tlie  thousand  labors  of  the  world  had 

grown  up  once  again. 

"The  sun  grew  on  the  world,  and  on  my 

soul  the  tliought  grew  too,  — 
A  great  appalling  sun,  to  light  my  soul 

the  long  day  through. 
I  felt  the  world's   whole   burden  for   a 

moment,  then  began 
"With  man's  gigantic  strength  to  do  the 

labor  of  one  man. 

"I  went  forth  hastily,  and  lo !  I  met  a 

hundred  men, 
The   worker  with   the   chisel    and   the 

worker  with  the  pen,  — ■ 
The  restless  toilers  after  good,  who  sow 

and  never  reap. 
And   one  who  maketh  music  for  their 

souls  that  may  not  sleep. 

' '  Each  passed  me  with  a  dauntless  look, 

and  my  undaunted  eyes 
Were   almost   softened   as   they   passed 

witli  tears  that  strove  to  rise 
At  sight  of  all  those  labors,  and  because 

that  every  one, 
Ay,  the  greatest,  would  be  gi'eater  if  my 

little  were  undone. 

"They  passed  me,  having  faith  in  me, 
and  in  our  several  ways, 

Together  we  began  to-day  as  on  the  other 
days : 

I  felt  their  mighty  hands  at  work,  and, 
as  the  day  wore  tlirough. 

Perhaps  they  felt  that  even  1  was  help- 
ing somewhat  too : 

"Perhaps  they  felt,  as  with  those  hands 

they  lifted  mightily 
The   burden    once   more  laid  upon  the 

world  so  heavily. 


That  while  they  nobly  held  it  as  each 

man  can  do  and  bear. 
It  did  not  wholly  fall  my  side  as  though 

no  man  were  there. 

"And  so  we  toil  together  many  a  day 

from  morn  till  night, 
I  in  the  lower  depths  of  life,  they  on  the 

lovely  height ; 
For  though  the  common  stones  are  mine, 

and  they  have  lofty  cares, 
Their  work  begins  where  this  leaves  off, 

and  mine  is  part  of  theirs. 

"And  't  is  not  wholly  mine  or  theirs  I 
think  of  through  the  day, 

But  the  great  eternal  thing  we  make  to- 
gether, I  and  they ; 

Far  in  the  sunset  I  behold  a  city  that 
man  owns. 

Made  fair  with  all  their  nobler  toil,  built 
of  my  common  stones. 

"Then  noon  ward,  as  the  task  grows  light 
witli  all  the  labor  done. 

The  single  thought  of  all  the  day  be- 
comes a  joyous  one : 

For,  rising  in  my  heart  at  last  where  it 
has  lain  so  long. 

It  thrills  up  seeking  for  a  voice,  and 
grows  almost  a  song. 

"But  when  the  evening  comes,  indeed, 

the  words  have  taken  wing, 
The  thought  sings  in  me  still,  but  I  am 

all  too  tired  to  sing  ; 
Therefore,  0  you  my  friend,  who  serve 

the  world  with  minstrelsy. 
Among  our  fellow- workers'  songs  make 

that  one  song  for  me." 


MRS.  KNOX. 


A  SONG. 

Dost  thou  think  I  captive  lie 
To  a  gracious,  glancing  eye? 
Dost  thou  think  1  am  not  free  ? 
Nay,  I  am ;  tliou  freest  me. 

All  the  world  could  not  undo 

Chains  which  bound  me  fast  to  you; 
Only  at  your  touch  they  fly, — 
Frec^r  than  before  am  I. 


C.   BROOKE.  —  AECHDEACON  HARE. 


1  care  not  for  eyes  of  blue ; 

I  loved  truth  and  thought  it  you  ; 
If  you  charm  but  to  deceive, 
All  your  charms  I  well  can  leave. 

Ah,  my  once  well-loved  one ; 
Do  no  more  as  thou  hast  done ; 

She  that  makes  true  hearts  to  ache, 
Last  of  all  her  own  will  break. 


C.  BEOOKB. 

A  CYCLE. 

If  he  had  come  in  the  early  dawn, 
When  the  sunrise  flushed  the  earth, 

I  would  have  given  him  all  my  heart, 
Whatever  the  heart  was  worth. 

If  he  had  come  at  the  noontide  hour, 
He  would  not  have  come  too  late ; 

I  would  have  given  him  patient  faith, 
For  then  I  had  learned  to  wait. 

If  he  had  come  in  the  afterglow, 
In  the  peace  of  the  eventide, 

I  would  have  given  him  hands  and  brain. 
And  worked  for  him  till  I  died. 

If  he  comes  now  the  sun  has  set, 
And  the  light  has  died  away, 

I  will  not  give  him  a  broken  life 
But  will  turn  and  say  him,  "Nay." 


ARCHDEACON  HARE. 

ITALY.    A  PROPHECY. 

1818. 

Strike  the  loved  harp ;  let  the  prelude 
be, 
Italy!  Italy! 
That  chord  again,  again  that  note  of  glee,  — 

Italy!  Italy! 
Italy !  0  Italy !  the  very  sound  it  charm- 

eth: 
Italy !   0  Italy !   the  name  my  bosom 
warmeth. 
High  thought  of  self-devotions, 
Compassionate  emotions, 


Soul-stirring  recollections, 

With  hopes,  their  bright  reflections. 

Rush  to  my  troubled  heart  at  thought  of 
thee. 

My  own  illustrious,  injured  Italy. 

Dear  queen  of  snowy  mountains, 
And  consecrated  fountains, 
Within  whose  rocky,  heaven-aspiringpale 
Beauty  has  fixed  a  dwelling 
All  others  so  excelling 
To  praise  it  right,  thine  own  sweet  tones 
would  fail ; 
Hail  to  thee  !  hail ! 
How  rich   art    thou   in   lakes  to   poet 

dear, 
And  those  broad  pines  amid  the  sunniest 
glade 
So  reigning  through  the  year. 
Within  the  magic  circle  of  their  shade 
No  sunbeam  may  appear ! 
How  fair  thy  double  sea  I 
In  blue  celestially 

Glittering  and  circling !  but  I  may  not 
dwell 
On  gifts,  which,  decking  thee  too 
well, 
Allured  the  spoiler.     Let  me  fix  my  ken 

Rather  upon  thy  godlike  men. 
The  good,  the  wise,  the  valiant,  and  the 

free. 
On  history's  pillars  towering  gloriously, 
A  trophy  reared  on  high  upon  thy  strand, 
That  every  people,  every  clime 
]\Iay  mark  and  understand. 
What  memorable  courses  may  be  run, 
What  golden  never-failing  treasures  won, 
From  time, 
In  spite  of  chance. 
And  worser  ignorance, 
If  men  be  iiiled  by  Duty's  firm  decree, 
And  wisdom  hold  her  paramount  mas- 
tery. 

What  art  thou  now  ?    Alas !    Alas ! 

Woe,  woe ! 
That  strength  and  virtue  thus  should  pass 

From  men  below ! 
That  so  divine,  so  beautiful  a  Maid 
Should  in  the  withering  dust  be  laid. 
As  one  that —    Hush!    who  dares  with 
impious  breath 
To  speak  of  death  ? 
The  fool  alone  and  unbeliever  weepeth. 
We  know  she  only  sleepeth  ; 

And  from  the  dust. 
At  the  end  of  her  correction, 


340 


SONGS   OF  THEEE   CENTURIES. 


Truth  hatli  decreed  her  joyous  resurrec- 
tion : 
She  shall  arise,  she  must. 
For  can  it  be  that  wickedness  hath  power 
To  undermine  or  topple  down  the  tower 
Of  virtue's  edifice  ? 
And  yet  that  vice 
Should  be  allowed  on  sacred  ground  to 
plant 
A  rock  of  adamant  ? 
It  is  of  ice, 
That  rock  soon  destined  to  dissolve  away 
Before  the  righteous  sun's  returning  ray. 

But  who  shall  bear  the  dazzling  radiancy, 
"When  first  the  royal  Maid  awaking 
Darteth  aroimd  her  wild  indignant  eye, 
Wlien  first  her  bright  spear  shaking. 
Fixing  her  feet  on  eartli,  her  looks  on  sky, 
She  standeth  like  the  Archangel  promjit 

to  vanquish. 
Yet  still  imploring  succor  from  on  high  ? 

0  days  of  weary  hope   and  passionate 

anguish. 
When  will  ye  end  ! 
Until  that  end  be  come,  until  I  hear 

The  Alps  their  mighty  voices  blend. 
To  swell  and  echo  back  the  sound  most 

dear 
To  patriot  hearts,  the  cry  of  Liberty, 

1  must  live  on.     But  when  the  glorious 

Queen 
As  erst  is  canopied  with  Freedom's  sheen, 
When  I  have  prest,  with  salutation  meet. 
With  reverent  love  to  kiss  her  honored 

feet, 
I  then  may  die. 
Die  how  well  satisfied  ! 
Conscious  that  I  have  watched  the  second 

birth 
Of  her  I  've  loved  the  most  upon  the 

earth, 
Conscious  beside 
That  no  more  beauteous  sight  can  here 

be  given : 
Sublimer  visions  are  reserved  for  heaven. 


T.  K.  HERVEY. 

EPITAPH. 

Farewell  !  since  never  more  for  thee 
The  sTin  comes  up  our  eastern  skicss. 

Less  bright  hencefortli  shall  sunshine  be 
To  some  fond  hearts  and  saddened  eyes. 


There  are  who  for  thy  last,  long  sleep 
Sliall  sleep  as  sweetly  nevermore,  — 

Shall  weep  because  thou  canst  not  weep, 
And  grieve  that  all  thy  griefs  are  o'er. 

Sad  thrift  of  love  !  the  loving  breast 
On  which  the  aching  head  \vas  thrown, 

Gave  up  the  weary  head  to  rest, 
But  kept  the  aching  for  its  own. 


FREDERICK  TENNYSON. 


THE  BLACKBIRD, 

How  sweet  the  harmonies  of  afternoon ! 
The  Blackbird  sings  along  the  sunny 

breeze 
His  ancient  song  of  leaves,  and  summer 

boon ; 
Rich    breath    of     hayfields    streams 

through  whispering  trees ; 
And  birds  of  morning  trim  their  bustling 

wings. 
And  listen  fondly — while  the  Blackbird 


How  soft  the  lovelight  of  the  west  re- 
poses 
On  this  green  valley's  cheery  solitude, 
On  the  trim  cottage  with  its  screen  of 
roses. 
On  the  gray  belfry  with  its  ivy  hood, 
And  murmuring  mill-race,  and  the  wheel 

that  flings 
Its  bubbling  freshness — while  the  Black- 
bird sings. 

The  very  dial  on  the  village  church 
Seems  as  'twere  dreaming  in  a  dozy 
rest ; 

The  scribbled  benches  underneath  the 
porch 
Bask  in  the  kindly  welcome  of  the 
west : 

But  the  broad  casements  of  the  old  Three 
Kings 

Blaze  like  a  furnace — while  the  Black- 
bird sings. 

And  there  beneath  the  immemorial  elm 
Three    rosy  revellers    round  a  table 
sit, 


FKEDEEICK  TENNYSON. 


^41 


And  through  gray  clouds  give  laws  unto 
the  reahii, 
Curse  good  and  great,  but  worship  their 
own  wit, 

And  roar  of  fights,  and  fairs,  and  junket- 
ings. 

Com,  colts,  and  curs  —  the  while  the 
Blackbird  sings. 

Before    her    home,  in   her   accustomed 

seat, 
The  tidy  grandam  spins  beneath  the 

shade 
Of  the  old  honeysuckle,  at  her  feet 
The  dreaming  pug,  and  purring  tabby 

laid; 
To  her  low  chair  a  little  maiden  clings. 
And  spells  in  silence — while  the  Black- 

bii'd  sings. 

Sometimes  the  shadow  of  a  lazy  cloud 
Breathes  o'er  the  hamlet  with  its  gar- 
dens green, 

While  the  far  fields  with  sunlight  over- 
flowed 
Like  golden  shores  of  Fairyland  are 
seen ; 

Again    the    sunshine    on    the    shadow 
springs. 

And  fires  the  thicket — where  the  Black- 
bu'd  sings. 

The  woods,  the  lawn,  the  peaked  manor- 
house, 
"With    its    peach-covered    walls,   and 
rookery  loud. 

The  trim,  quaint  garden-alleys,  screened 
with  boughs, 
The   lion-headed  gates,  so  grim   and 
proud, 

The  mossy  fountain  with  its  murmur- 
ings. 

Lie  in  warm  sunshine — while  the  Black- 
bird sings. 

The  ring  of  silver  voices,  and  the  sheen 
Of    festal   garments,  —  and  my   lady 
streams 
With  her  gay  court  across  the   garden 
green; 
Some  laugh,  and  dance,  some  whisper 
their  love-dreams ; 
And  one  calls  for  a  little  Jiage ;  he  strings 
Her  lute  beside  her — while  the  Black- 


A  little  while — and  lo!   the   charm  is 
heard ; 
A  youth,  whose  life  has  been  all  sum- 
mer, steals 

Forth  from  the  noisy  guests  around  the 
board, 
Creeps  by  her  softly ;  at  her  footstool 
kneels  ; 

And,  when  she  pauses,  murmurs  tender 
things 

Into  her  fond  ear — while  the  Blackbird 
sings. 

The   smoke-wreaths  from  the  chimneys 

curl  up  higher. 

And  dizzy  things  of  eve  begin  to  float 

Upon  the  light;    the  breeze  begins  to 

tire. 

Half-way  to  sunset  with  a  drowsy  note 

The   ancient  clock  from  out  the  valley 

swings ; 
The  grandam  nods — and  still  the  Black- 
bird sings. 

Far  shouts  and  laughter  from  the  farm- 
stead peal. 
Where  the  great  stack  is  piling  in  the 
sun; 

Through  narrow  gates  o'erladen  wagons 
reel, 
And  barking  curs  into  the  tumult  run  ; 

While  the  inconstant  wind  bears  ofi",  and 
brings 

The  merry  tempest — and  the  Blackbird 
sings. 

On  the  high  wold  the  last  look  of  the  sun 
Burns,  like   a   beacon,  over  dale  and 

stream ; 
The  shouts  have  ceased,  the  laughter  and 

the  fun ; 
The  grandam  sleeps,  and  peaceful  be 

her  dream ; 
Only  a  hammer  on  an  anvil  rings ; 
The  day  is  dying — still  the  Blackbird 

sings. 

Now  the  good  vicar  passes  from  his  gate, 
Serene,  with  long  white  hair ;  and  in 
his  eye 

Burns  the  clear  spirit  that  hath  conquered 
Fate, 
And  felt  the  wings  of  immortality ; 

His  heart  is  thronged  with  great  imagin- 
ings, 

And  tender  mercies — while  the  Black- 
bird sings. 


342 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Down  by  the  brook  he  bends  his  steps, 

and  through 
A    lovly    wicket ;    and    at    last    he 

stands 
Awful  beside  the  bed  of  one  who  grew 
From  boyhood  with  him, — who  with 

lifted  hands 
And  eyes  seems  listening  to  far  welcom- 

ings 
And  sweeter  music — than  the  Blackbird 

sings. 


Two  golden  stars,  like  tokens  from  the 

blest, 
Strike  on  his  dim  orbs  from  the  setting 

sun; 
His  sinking  hands  seem  pointing  to  the 

west; 
He  smiles  as  though  he  said,   "Thy 

will  be  done  ! " 
His  eyes,  they  see  not  those  illuminings ; 
His    ears,   they   hear    not  —  what    the 

Blackbird  sings. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Pcage 
Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase  !)  144 
Above  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly  drift- 
ing    301 

A  calm  and  lovely  paradise 172 

A  chieftain,  to  tlie  Highlands  bound 139 

A  cloud  lay  cradled  near  tlie  setting  sun  . .  146 
A  face  that  sliould  content  me  wondrous 

well 4 

A  floating,  a  floating 250 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  bj'  ....   103 

Again,  how  can  slie  Init  immortal  be 11 

A  happy  bit  hame  tliis  auld  world  would  be  184 

Ah  !  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh 105 

Alas,  'tis  true,  1  have  gone  here  and  there     18 

A  light  is  out  in  Italy 304 

All  before  us  lies  the  way 202 

All  powers  of  the  sea  and  air 252 

All  the  rivers  run  into  tlie  sea 306 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights lOS 

All  worldly  shapes  shaU  melt  in  gloom 138 

Alone  I  walk  the  morning  street 328 

Along  the  ramparts  wliicli  surround  tlie 

town 288 

Although  I  enter  not •. 195 

A  man  there  came,  whence  none  could  tell   217 

Among  so  many,  can  He  care? 277 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true  ? 71 

And  I  shall  sleep  ;  and  on  thy  side 190 

And  is  the  swallow  gone  ? 182 

And  is  there  care  in  heaven  ?    And  is  there 

love 7 

And  O,  the  longing,  burning  eyes  ! 333 

And  thou  hast  walked  about  —  how  strange 

a  story  ! 141 

A  parish  priest  was  of  the  pilgrim  train. . .     46 

A  sentinel  angel  sitting  high  in  glory 305 

A  silver  javelin  which  the  hills 262 

As  I  stood  by  yon  roofless  tower 83 

A  soldier  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers  173 

A  song  of  a  boat 282 

A  Sower  went  forth  to  so  w ...'.  329 

As  ships  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 244 

A  stillness  crept  about  the  house 310 

At  daybreak  in  the  fresh  light,  joyfully 295 

A  thousand  years  shall  coine  and  go 258 

At  noon,  within  the  dusty  town 315 

A  traveller  through  a  dusty  road  strewed 

acorns  on  the  lea  218 

At  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet 

is  still 72 

At  the  king's  gate  the  subtle  noon 294 

At  the  mid  hour  of  night,  when  stars  are 

weeping,  I  fly 124 

At  the  spring  of  an  arch  in  the  great  north 

tower 31S 

Awake,  my  soul,  and  with  the  sun 46 


Page 

A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid lOj 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea 144 

Beat  on,  proud  billows;  Boreas,  blow 30 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead  ! 203 

BegcMie  dull  care 20 

Beneath  an  Indian  palm  a  girl 181 

Beneath  the  moonlight  and  the  snow 214 

Better  trust  all  and  be  deceived 175 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wiud 16 

Blue  gulf  all  around  us 261 

Bonny  Kilmenv  gaed  up  the  glen 121 

Bonny  Tibbie  Inglis  ! 181 

Break,  break,  break 196 

Bright  image  of  the  early  years 176 

Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonny  bonny  bride  .     56 

By  Nebo's  lonely  mountain 237 

By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river 326 

Calm  me,  my  God,  and  keep  me  calm 247 

Calm  on  the  listening  ear  of  night 238 

Can  angel  spirits  need  repose 136 

Clear,  placid  Leinan  !  thy  contrasted  lake.  126 

Close  beside  the  meeting  waters 273 

Close  his  eyes  ;  his  work  is  done  ! 290 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud 198 

Come  live  with  nie,  and  be  my  love 4 

Come,  see  the  Dolphin's  anchor  forged  ;  'tis 

at  a  white  heat  now 170 

Come,  Sleep,  O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of 

peace 6 

Comes  something  down  with  eventide 258 

Come  to  me,  dearest,  I  'm  lonely  without 

thee 330 

Come  with  a  smile,  when  come  thou  must.  313 

Condemned  to  hope's  delusive  mine 59 

Consider  the  sea's  listless  chime 295 

Cooper,  whose  name  is  with  his  country's 

woven ." . .  106 

Could  ye  come  back  to  me,  Douglas,  Doug- 
las    250 

Creep  into  thy  narrow  bed 206 

Day-stars  !  that  ope  your  eyes  with  morn, 

to  twinkle 1 40 

Dear  friend  of  old,  whom  memory  links.. . .  319 
Dear  Friend  !  whose  presence  in  the  house  246 

Dear  is  my  little  native  vale 81 

Dim  as  the  borrowed  beams  of  moon  and 

stars' 46 

Do  not  cheat  thy  heart,  and  tell  her 27.S 

Dost  thou  think  I  captive  lie 338 

Down  below,  the  wild  November  whistling  247 
Drawn  out,  like  lingering  bees,  to  share . . .  302 

Earl  Gawain  wooed  the  Lady  Barbara 204 

Earth  with  its  dark  and  dreadful  ills 255 


344 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES. 


Fair  P.-iffodils,  wp  wecji  to  sec 30 

Fair  iilc.lges  of  a  fruitful  tii'e 31 

Farewell  rewards  and  fairies  ! 20 

Farewell !  since  never  more  for  thee 340 

Farewell  to  Loeliaber,  farewell  to  my  Jean    49 

Father,  I  know  that  all  my  life 24C 

Father  of  all  !  in  every  age 48 

Fatlier,  thy  paternal  care 146 

Father  !  thy  wonders  do  not  singly  stand  .   17G 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  tlie  sun 16 

Fly  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me 123 

For  a  foot  that  wiirnot  come 316 

Forever  with  the  Lord  ! 135 

Fresh  glides  the  brook  and  blows  the  gale.  174 

From  gold  to  gray 216 

From  harmony,  from  hea\'cnly  harmony  ..     45 

From  his  home  in  an  Kastern  bungalow 321 

p'rom  ( )ljcron,  iu  fairy-land 21 

From  tStii  ling  Castle  we  had  seen 101 

From  tlic  reresses  of  a  lowly  spirit 146 

FuU  fathom  live  thy  father  lies .16 

Give  !    as  the  morning  that  flows  out  of 

heaven 259 

Give  me  my  scallop-shell  of  quiet 5 

"  Give  us  a  song  !  "  the  soldiers  cried 263 

Go,  call  for  the  mourners,  and  raise  the 

lament 89 

God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an'  still .  225 

God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way 71 

God  of  the  earth's  extended  plains  ! 162 

God  sets  some  souls  in  shade,  alone 277 

Go  forth  in  life,  O  friend  !  not  seeking  love  259 

Go,  soul,  the  body's  guest 6 

Grandmother's  mother  ;  her  age,  I  guess..  219 
Grovif  old  along  with  me  ! 204 

Had  I  a  heart  for  falsehood  framed 79 

Hail,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grove  !  . . . .  75 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit 127 

Hark  !  hark  !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings  16 
Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning 

star 109 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss 

shay 221 

Heap  on  more  wood  !  —  the  wind  is  chill. .  107 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells 202 

Heigh-ho!  daisies  and  imttercups  ! 282 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain 106 

He  kept  his  honesty  and  truth 165 

He  meets,  by  heavenly  chance  exjiress 253 

Her  cap,  far  whiter  than  the  driven  snow  .  59 

Her  hands  arc  cold ;  lier  face  is  white 223 

He  said,  "  O  brother,  where  's  the  use  of 

climbing  ?  " 204 

He  's  gane,  he  's  gane  !  he  's  frae  us  torn  . .  84 

He  sleeps  not  hero ;  in  hope  and  prayer. . .  221 

He  's  now  U]ion  the  spectre's  back 186 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek 25 

He  that  of  such  a  height  hath  built  his 

mind 14 

Hie  upon  Hielands 76 

High  liopcs  that  burned  ]il;e  stars  sublime  212 

High  walls  and  huge  the  l)ody  may  Confine  168 

His  echoing  axe  llu^  settler  swung 234 

Hither  thou  cora'st.      The  busy  wind  all 

night 32 

Hovif  arc  thy  servants  blest,  O  Lord  1 47 

How  beautiful  it  was,  that  one  bright  day.  211 
How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of 

my  childhood 147 

Howe'er  Hie  wheels  of  Time  go  round 262 

How  fresh,  ()  Lord,  how  sweet  and  clean . .  31 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 13 


How  many  days  with  mute  adieu 177 

How  near  to  good  is  what  is  fair  ! 19 

How  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief  of 

youth ;)S 

How  sweet  it  w^as  to  breathe  that  cooler 

air 87 

How  sweet  it  were,  if  without  feeble  fright  144 
How  sweet  the  harmonies  of  alternoon  !  ..  340 
How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze 34 


I  am  content,  I  do  not  care 

I  am  old  and  blind  ! 

I  climb  the  hill :  from  end  to  end 

I,  country-born  an'  bred,  know  where  to 
find 

I  do  confess  thou  'rt  smooth  and  fair 

I  do  not  own  an  inch  of  land 

I  dwell  in  grace's  courts 

If  all  the  world  and  love  were  young 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop  or  pastoral  song 

I  feel  a  newer  life  in  every  gale 

If  lie  had  come  in  the  early  dawn 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up  of  loveliness 
alone 

If  love  were  wliat  the  rose  is 

I  found  a  fellow-worker  when  I  deemed  I 
toiled  alone 

If  stores  of  dry  and  learned  lore  we  gain  . . 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love 

If  with  light  head  erect  I  sing 

I  have  been  out  to-day  in  field  and  wood.. 

I  have  fancied  sometimes,  the  old  Bethel- 
bent  beam 

I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  liad  compan- 
ions   

I  hear  it  often  in  the  dark 

I  knew  a  Princess  :  she  was  old 

I  know  not  how  to  comfort  thee 

I  know  not  if  or  dark  or  bright 

I  know  not  that  the  men  of  old 

I  know  not  what  shall  befall  me 

I  like  a  church,  I  like  a  cowl 

I  loved  liim  not;  and  yet,  now  he  is  gone. 

I  loved  to  hear  the  war-horn  cry 

I  love  to  wander  through  the  woodlands 
hoary  

I  'm  sitting  on  the  stile,  Mary 

I  'm  wearin'  awa',  Jean 

In  Athens,  when  all  learning  centred  there 

In  a  valley,  centuries  ago 

I  never  loved  ambitiously  to  climb 

In  hiwly  dale,  fast  by  a  river's  side 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long 

In  tlie  still  air  the  music  lies  unheard 

In  the  summer  twilight 

In  this  sad  hour,  so  still,  so  late 

Into  a  city  street  

In  winter,  when  the  rain  rained  cauld 

1  plucked  the  harebells  as  I  went 

I  said  to  Sorrow's  awful  storm 

I  saw  a  man,  by  some  accounted  wise 

I  saw  two  clouds  at  morning 

I  say  to  thee,  do  thou  repeat 

I  sought  thee  round  about,  O  thou  .■ny  God 

Is  there  a  whim-inspired  fool 

Is  this  a  fast,  to  keep 

It  ehaneeth  once  to  every  soul 

It  fell  about  the  Martinmas 

It  fell  about  the  Martinmas  time 

I  thought  of  thee,  my  partner  and  my  guide 

It  is  a  jilace  where  ])oets  crowned  may  feel 
the  heart's  decaying 

It  is  done  ! 

It  is  not  growing  like  a,  tree 


224 
26 

274 

10 

5 

C4 

155 

339 

165 
286 

337 
106 
143 

23a 

256 


120 
30/- 
303 
254 
179 
ISO 
307 
20  > 
137 
lUS 


233 

103 

86 

326 

318 

12 

51 

183 

247 

313 

20S 

307 

24 

337 

148 

321 

156 

241 

26 

83 

31 

3o; 


103 

104 

IS 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES. 


545 


It  lies  around  us  like  a  cloud 24S 

It  stands  in  a  sunny  meadow 290 

It  was  a  friar  of  orders  gray 67 

It  was  tlie  winter  wild 35 

I  've  heard  tliem  lilting  at  our  ewe-milliing  8S 
I  've  wandered  east,  I  've  wandered  west . .   159 

I  wandered  by  tlie  brooiiside ISO 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  elond 99 

I  was  tliv  neiglibor  once,  tliou  rugged  pile  !  101 

I  worslii'i)  thee,  sweet  Will  of  God ! 239 

I  would  be  ready.  Lord 321 

I  woidd  have  gone  ;  God  bade  me  stay 272 

I  would  not  live  alway :  I  ask  not  to  stay  .  162 

Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul 58 

John  Davidson  and  Tib  his  wife 78 

Judge  not ;  the  workings  of  his  brain   ....  278 

Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us 207 

Just  where  the  Treasury's  marble  front . ..  2S5 

Laid  in  my  quiet  bed 3 

Late  to  our  town  there  came  a  maid 269 

Launch  thy  bark,  mariner  ! 148 

Lest  men  susjiect  your  tale  untrue 50 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds. .  18 
Let  Taylor  preach,  upon  a  moniing  breezy    160 

Let  us  go,  lassie,  go 88 

Life  !  I  know  not  what  thou  art 75 

Life  may  be  given  in  many  ways 228 

Like  some  vision  olden 253 

Like  to  the  falling  of  a  star "27 

Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear  . . .  207 
Little  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked 

clown 200 

Lo,  here  is  God,  and  there  is  God  ! 242 

Long  years  ago  I  wandered  here 335 

Lo  !  o'er  the  earth  the  kindling  spirits  i)our  90 
Looking  seaward,  o'er  the  sand-hills  stands 

the  fortress,  old  and  quaint 299 

Lord  !  call  thy  pallid  angel 143 

Lord,  it  belongs  not  to  my  care 39 

Love  divine,  all  other  love  excelling 58 

Love,  when  all  these  years  are  silent,  van- 
ished quite  aud  laid  to  rest 312 

Maiden  !  with  the  meek,  bro^vn  eyes 209 

Make  me  no  vows  of  constancy,  dear  friend  251 

Metliinks  it  is  good  to  be  here 93 

Mid  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may 

roam 153 

Midwinter  comes  to-morrow 320 

Mild  offspring  of  a  dark  and  sullen  sire  !. . .     92 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill SI 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  gloiy  of  the  conung 

of  the  Lord 236 

Ml mt  Blanc  is  the  monarch  of  mountains . .  126 
More  than  the  soul  of  ancient  song  is  given  263 

My  child  is  lying  on  my  knees 270 

My  days  among  the  dead  are  passed 117 

My  dear  and  only  love,  I  pray 28 

My  hawk  is  tired  of  perch  and  hood 105 

My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose 152 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is 15 

My  sins  and  follies.  Lord  !  by  thee 33 

Mysterious  night !  when  our  first  parent 

knew 89 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee 245 

Never,  surely,  was  holier  man 226 

Next  to  these  ladies,  but  in  naught  allied  .  80 

Night  seems  troubled  and  scarce  asleep  . . .  314 

No  abbey's  gloom,  nor  dark  cathedral  stoops  2.15 

No  longer  spread  the  sail ! 262 

No  mistress  of  the  hidden  skill 153 


No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea 117 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  fiuieral  note.  152 
No  !  Time,  thou  shalt  not  boast  that  I  do 

change 18 

Not  in  the  world  of  light  alone 219 

N(jt  often  to  the  parting  soul 2:;5 

Not  ours  the  vows  of  such  as  jdight 144 

Not  yet,  the  flowei-s  are  iu  my  path 254 

O  Artist,  range  not  over-wde 266 

O,  ask  not,  hope  thou  not,  too  nuich 154 

O  blithe  new-comer  !  I  have  heard 100 

O  blushing  flowers  of  Krumley  ! 254 

O  fair  and  stately  maid,  whose  eyes 199 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw 82 

Of  all  amusements  for  the  ndnd 232 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 190 

Oft  has  it  been  my  lot  to  mark 64 

Of  them  who,  rapt  in  earth  so  cold 73 

Of  this  fair  volume  which  we  World  do 

name 12 

O  haijpiness  !  our  being's  end  and  aim  ! 48 

O  hapi>y,  happy  maid 257 

O,  heard  ye  you  pibroch  sound  sad  in  tlie 

gale 138 

O,  I  hae  come  from  far  away 329 

O,  it  is  hard  to  work  for  God 239 

O  Lady,  leave  thy  silken  thread 161 

O,  Lady  Mary  Ann  looked  o'er  the  castle 

wa' 77 

O  Land,  of  every  land  the  best 257 

O  lassie  ayont  the  hill  ! 270 

Old  Tubal  Cain  was  a  man  of  might 218 

O  Love  Divine,  of  all  that  is 308 

O  lull  me,  lull  me,  charming  air 26 

O  Mary,  at  thy  window  be  ! .^2 

O  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home 24  > 

O  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible 2 :  ^ 

Once,  in  the  flight  of  ages  past 135 

Ouce  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  sands 189 

One  day,  nigh  weary  of  the  irksome  way  . .  8 

One  day  to  Helbeck  I  had  strolled 118 

One  sweetly  welcome  thought 25(5 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 128 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake 155 

Open  the  temple-gates  unto  my  love 8 

O  Sa\dour !  whose  mercy,  severe  in  its  kind- 
ness   178 

O,  sing  unto  my  roundelay  ! 79 

O  stream  descending  to  the  sea 24.'i 

O,  sweet  and  fair !    O,  rich  and  rare  ! 274 

O  that  those  lips  had  language  !    Life  has 

passed 69 

O  thou,  great  Friend  to  all  the  sons  of  men  239 

O  thou  who  dry'st  the  mourner's  tear ! 124 

O,  timely  happy,  timely  wise 177 

O  unseen  Spirit  !  now  a  calm  divine 175 

Our  Mary  liket  weel  to  stray 169 

Out  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass 316 

Out  upon  the  unknown  deep 250 

Over  hill,  over  dale 16 

Over  the  mountains 19 

Over  the  mountain  wave,  see  where  they 

come 168 

Over  the  river  they  beckon  to  me 277 

O,  waly,  waly  up  the  bank 76 

O,  weel  may  the  boatie  row 77 

O,  what  will  a'  the  lads  do 121 

O.why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud  ?  149 

O  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 197 

O,  young   Lochinvar  is   come  out  of  the 

west 104 

Pack  clouds  away,  and  welcome  day 26 


346 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES. 


Pause  not  to  dream  of  the  future  before  us  175 
Pipe,  little  minstrels  of  the  waning  year. . .  297 

Prayer  is  the  soul's  sincere  desire 136 

Put  the  broidery-frame  away 191 


Queen,  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair. . . . 
Quiet  from  God  1     It  cometh  not  to  still 


18 

244 


Remember  us  poor  Mayers  all ! 20 

King,  sing  1  ring,  sing !   pleasant  Sabbath 
bells  ! 284 

Saith  the  white  owl  to  the  martin  folk  ....  314 

See,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him 231 

Send  down  thy  winged  angel,  God  ! 179 

Serene,  I  fold  my  hands  and  wait 327 

Shall  I  tell  you  whom  I  love? 25 

She  doth  tell  me  where  to  borrow 34 

"  She  is  dead  !  "  they  said  to  him.    "  Come 

away  " 317 

She  's  gane  to  dwall  in  heaven,  my  lassie  . .  145 
She  smiles  and  smiles,  and  will  not  sigh. . .  266 

She  stood  alone  amidst  the  April  fields 291 

She  stood  breast  high  amid  the  corn 161 

She  stood  in  the  harvest-field  at  noon 271 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 125 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 100 

She  wearies  with  an  ill  unknown 252 

Silent  nymph,  with  curious  eye  ! 54 

Sitting  all  day  in  a  silver  mist 327 

Slave  of  the  dark  and  dirty  mine  ! 90 

Slayer  of  winter,  art  thou  here  again  ? 297 

Sleep  on,  my  love,  in  thy  cold  bed 28 

Sleep,  sleep  to-day,  tormenting  cares 74 

Shn\ly,  by  God's  liand  unfurled 260 

Snow  was  glistening  on  the  mountains,  but 

the  air  was  that  of  June 230 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  the  roses  in  their  blow- 
ing   , 291 

Spring,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the 

air  311 

St.  Agnes'  Eve,  —  ah,  bitter  chill  it  was  !  ..  129 

Steer  liither,  steer  your  winged  pines 25 

Stern  daughter  of  the  voice  of  God  1 102 

Still  sits  the  school-house  by  the  road 215 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest 19 

Strike  the  loved  liarp  ;  let  the  jireludebe..  339 

Success  had  made  him  more  than  king 313 

Sure,  to  the  mansions  of  the  blest 137 

Sweet  Day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright 31 

Sweetest  of  all  childlike  dreams 215 

Sweet  is  the  scene  when  virtue  dies  ! 74 

Sweet-scented   flower !    who  'rt  wont   to 

bloom 92 

Sweet-voieed  Hope,  thy  fine  discourse 241 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft,  at  even- 
ing's close 65 

Sweet  wind,   fair  wind,  where   have   you 
been  ? 337 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers 209 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind 30 

Ten  years  !  —  and  to  my  waking  eye 265 

That  house's  form  within  was  rude  and 

strong 9 

That  regal  soul  I  reverence,  in  whose  eyes.  241 
That  time  of  year  thou  mayst  in  me  be- 
hold      17 

The  Assvrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on 

the  fold 125 

The  bard  has  sung.  God  never  formed  a 

soul 154 

The  birds,  when  winter  shades  the  sky ....  105 


The  birds  must  know.  Who  wisely  sings  .  295 
The  conference-meeting  through  at  last  . . .  285 
The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day . .  00 
The  curtains  were  half  drawn,   the   floor 

was  swept 272 

The  day  is  ended.  Ere  I  sink  to  sleep  ....  298 
The  day  was  dark,  save  when  the  beam  . ..  142 

The  fairest  action  of  <mr  human  life 13 

The  frugal  snail,  witli  forecast  of  repose. ..  120 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 28 

The  golden  sea  its  miiror  spreads 244 

The  gowan  glitters  on  the  sward 86 

The  grass  hung  wet  on  Rydal  banks 260 

The  island  lies  nine  leagues  away 185 

The  Jackdaw  sat  on  the  Cardinal's  chair. . .  150 
The  Jester  shook  his  head  and  bells,  and 

leaped  upon  a  chair 293 

The  leaves  have  fallen  from  the  trees 268 

The  lift  is  high  and  blue 250 

The  Lord  descended  from  above 3 

The  Lord  my  ]iasture  shall  jn'cpare 47 

The  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest 

of  the  year 18S 

The  midges  dance  aboon  the  burn 88 

The  music-lesson  of  Koung-tseu  the  wise...  331 

Tlie  night  is  come  ;  like  to  the  day 29 

The  night  was  dark,  though  sometimes  a 

faint  star 328 

The  night  was  made  for  cooling  shade 2S',' 

The  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry  tower . . .  280 
The  jierfect  sight  of  duty ;  thought  which 

moulds 320 

The  pilgrim  and  stranger,  who,  through  the 

day 273 

The  rain  has  ceased,  and  in  my  room 2S3 

The  rain  is  o'er.     How  dense  and  bright  ..  147 

There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses 287 

There  are  in  this  loud  stunning  tide 178 

There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight 57 

There  is  no  flock,   however  watched  and 

tended 210 

There  is  not  in  this  wide  world  a  valley  so 

sweet 124 

There  the  most  dainty  paradise  on  ground.  9 
There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and 

stream 97 

There  was  once  a  gentle  time 91 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  lands 224 

The  salt  wind  blows  upon  my  cheek 298 

The  seals  calling,  calling 336 

The  seas  arc  ((uict  when  the  winds  give  o'er  40 
These,  as  they  change,  Almighty  Father, 

these 52 

These  withered  hands  are  weak 31S 

The  shadows  lay  along  Broadway 172 

The  sky  is  thick  upon  the  sea 287 

The  solemn  wood  had  spread 255 

The  sparrow  sits  and  sings,  and  sings 296 

The  spli'iidor  falls  on  castle  walls 199 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear 1'27 

Tlie  thoughts  are  strange  that  crowd  into 

my  brain 155 

The  time  so  tranc|uil  is  and  clear 10 

The  tree  i,r.lc..).,.sl  rent  is  found 73 

The  wcatlicr-lr,',)!  of  (Itc  toi.sail  .shivers...   311 

The  west  nil  \va\  rs  of  cliliing  day 105 

The  wild  November  comes  at  last 287 

The  wind  ahead,  the  billows  high 240 

The  winds  that  once  the  Argo  bore 289 

The  wind  was  whispering  to  the  vines .305 

The  word  of  the  Lord  by  night 201 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us  ;  late  and 

soon 103 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light  . .     33 


INDEX  OF   FIRST   LINES. 


547 


They  gave   the  whole   long   day  to   idle 

hiiighter. 303 

They  sat  and  combed  their  beautiful  liair. .  292 
Tliey  that  have  power  to  hurt  and  will  do 

none 17 

Thine  eyes  still  shone  for  me,  though  far. .  200 

Think  me  not  unkind  and  rude 199 

This  is  tlie  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  fain  223 

This  morning,  timely  rapt  with  holy  fire. ..  19 

Tills  only  grant  me,  that  my  means  may  lie  40 

Thou  art,  O  God  !  the  life  and  light 124 

Thou  blossom  blight  with  autumn  dew  . . .  189 

Thou  Grace  Divine,  encircling  all 245 

Thouglit  is  deeper  than  all  speecdi 234 

Thou  hast  sworn  by  thy  God,  my  Jeanie  . .  145 

Thou  lingering  star,  with  lessening  ray ....  83 

Thou  singest  Ijy  the  gleaming  isles 283 

Thou,  who  didst  stoop  below 325 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  west  249 

Three  Poets,  in  three  distant  ages  born  ...  46 

Threescore  o'  nobles  rade  up  the  king's  ha'  78 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower  . .  100 

Thrice  happy  she  that  is  so  well  assured. . .  7 

Thy  banks  were  bonnie.  Yarrow  stream.. .  75 

Tiger  !  Tiger  !  burning  bright 85 

Till  tlie  slow  daylight  pale 272 

'T  is  a  story  told  by  Kalidasa 334 

'T  is  the  middle  of  night  by  the  castle  clock  110 

To  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb 63 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds. . .  187 

Toll  for  the  brave  ! 69 

Too  late  I  stayed,  forgive  the  crime 89 

Touch  us  gently.  Time  ! 179 

'T  was  when  the  wan  leaf  frae  the   birk- 

tree  was  fa'in 182 

Twelve  years  are  gone  since  Matthew  I;ee.  185 

Two  dark-eyed  maids,  at  shut  of  day 190 

Two  wandering  angels.  Sleep  and  Death. . .  232 
Two  worlds  there  are.    To  one  our  eyes  we 

strain 276 

Under  the  greenwood-tree 16 

Unto  the  glory  of  thy  Holy  Name 39 

Up  on  the  breezy  headland  the  fisherman's 

grave  they  made 334 

Upon  the  white  sea-sand 184 

Venemous  thorns  that  are  so  sharp  and  keen     4 

Walking  thus  towards  a  pleasant  grove.. ..  29 

Was  it  the  chime  of  a  tiny  bell 157 

We  are  all  here 169 

We  count  tlie  broken  lyres  that  rest 220 

We  left  the  city,  street  and  square 335 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  morn.. .  283 

What  ails  this  heart  o' mine  ?    75 

What  is  it  fades  and  flickers  in  the  fire ....  275 


What !  our  petitions  spurned  !    The  prayer  158 

What  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan 193 

When  all  is  done  and  said 3 

When  coldness  wraps  this  suffering  clay  ..  126 

Whene'er  a  noble  deed  is  wrought 211 

When  Freedom  from  her  mountain  heiglit.  L^J 

When  God  at  first  made  man 32 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent  . ..  38 

When  I  have  said  my  quiet  say 273 

When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's 

eyes 17 

When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved li)7 

When  love  with  uuconfined  wings. 3'i 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die V.O 

When  marshalled  on  the  nightly  jilain 93 

When  on  my  ear  your  loss  was  knelled 229 

When  the  grass  shall  cover  me 273 

When  the  slieep  are  in  the  fauld,  and  the 

kye  come  haine 85 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought  17 
Where  does  Circumstance  end,  and  Provi- 
dence, where  begins  it  ? 243 

Where  honor  or  where  conscience  does  not 

bind 41 

Wliere  tlie  bee  sucks,  there  lurk  1 10 

Where  the  Great  Lake's  sunny  smiles 212 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 3.j 

Whether  on  Ida's  shady  brow 86 

While    sauntering    through    the    crowded 

street 309 

Whilst  Thee  I  seek,  protecting  Power I.i6 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew '. 187 

Whoe'er  she  be 29 

Who  knoweth  life  but  questions  death 276 

Why  should   I,  with  a  mournful,  morbid 

spleen 309 

Why  thus  longing,  thus  forever  sighing.. ..  251 

With  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots 195 

With  deep  affection 171 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn 160 

Witli  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon  !  thou  climb'st 

the  skies 0 

Within  his  sober  realm  ol  leafless  trees 279 

Within  the  sunlit  forest 142 

Wouldst  thou  hear  what  man  can  say 19 

Tears,  years  ago,  ere  yet  my  dreams 1C3 

Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around. . .  S2 

Ye  distant  sjnres,  ye  antique  towers 6:! 

Ye  golden  lamps  of  heaven,  farewell 58 

Ye  say  they  all  have  passed  away 2(i0 

Yes,  faith  is  a  goodly  anchor 227 

You  knew,  —  who  knew  not  Astrophel  ?. . ..  7 
You  lay  a  wreath  on  murdered  Lincoln's 

bier 324 

You  meaner  beauties  of  the  night 13 

You  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  scorn 197 


INDEX   OF  SUBJECTS. 


Page 

After  Death 272 

Again 274 

Aliiiiie  Sheep,  The 229 

Althea,  To 30 

All  'sweU 241,  298 

Ainbitinn IGS 

Amiens's  Song 16 

Ambrose 226 

Anchor,  The  Forging  of  tlie 170 

An  Epistle  to  the   Countess   of  Cinnber- 

land.  From 14 

Angelic  Ministry 7 

Angel  in  the  House,  An 144 

Angel's  Visit,  An 271 

Apology,  The 199 

Ariel's  Song 16 

Ai-tist,  The 206 

"  A  Tribute  to  a  Servant,"  From 235 

At  Sea 287 

Anld  Robin  Gray 85 

Autumn,  A  stillDay  in 2:53 

Avoca,  The  Vale  of 124 

A  wet  Sheet  and  a  flowing  Sea 144 

Azrael 313 

Ball,  After  the 292 

B.ill,  Tiie  Belle  of  the 163 

BalMiiliitlicr,  The  Braes  o' 88 

Battlc-Kii'.l.l,  The  189 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic 236 

Bedford,  On  Lucy,  Countess  of. 19 

Begone  Dull  Care  ! 20 

Bells,  The 202 

Bermudas,  The 35 

Berne,  The  Terrace  at 265 

Bertha  268 

Bertha  in  the  Lane 191 

Bethlehem,  The  Star  of 93 

Bingen  on  the  Rhine 173 

Birch  Stream 315 

Bird,  The 32 

Blackbird,  The 340 

Blindness,  On  his 38 

Blossoms,  To 31 

Blue  and  the  Gray,  The 326 

Bonnie  George  Campbell 76 

Boston  Ilvnm 201 

"  Bothie  of  Tol)er-Navuolich,"  Prom  the. . .  243 

Bdwcr  of  Bliss,  The 9 

"  Break,  break,  break  !" 196 

Jhides  of  (^uair.  The  Ballad  of  the 310 

Briil-e  of  Sighs,  On  the 306 

]5i ksidc.  The ISO 

Brough   Bells 118 

Bucket,  The 147 


Page 

Bugle  Song 199 

Ihirial,  After  the 227 

Burns 105 

Bust  of  Dante,  On  a 231 

Camp,  The  Song  of  the 263 

Campanile  de  Pisa 230 

Cana 246 

Careless  Content 51 

' '  Castle  of  Indolence,"  From  the 51 

Celinda 29 

Chameleon,  The 64 

Charity 273 

Chase,  The 2.i2 

Childe's  Destiny,  The 1 53 

Choir,  The  Old-fashioned 304 

Christabel 110 

Christmas  Hymn 23S 

Christmas-Time 107 

Church  Gate,  At  the 195 

Climbing 294 

Columbine,  To  the  Painted 17(> 

Come  to  me,  Dearest 3:10 

Coming  Home 250 

Commemoration  Ode 22S 

Companionship  of  the  Muse 31 

Concha 299 

Confucius,  The  Music-Lesson  of. 331 

Congress,  To 15S 

Content  and  Rich 10 

Contentment 12 

Corn-Law  Hymn 14:i 

Coronach lOCi 

Coronation 2'.U 

Courtin',  The 225 

(!owper's  Grave 194 

Crickets,  The 297 

Cuckoo,  To  the 75,  loO 

Cuind  grown  careful 91 

Cycle,  A, 3:i9 

Daffodils,  The 09 

Daffodils,  To 30 

Dance,  The 329 

Dane,  The  Burial  of  the 261 

Dawn 328 

Deacon's  Masterpiece,  The 221 

Dead,  The 73 

Dead  who  have  died  in  the  Lord,  The 80 

Death  and  the  Youth 254 

Death  of  1  )r.  Li^vett,  On  the 59 

Death  tlie  Levelh^- 28 

Death,  Tlie  Secret  of 317 

Death,  Until 251 

Dee,  The  Sands  of 249 


INDEX   OF  SUBJECTS. 


349 


ppfi.-mre,  The  Soul's 148 

1  >etiiiitions 320 

Descriiition   of  such  a  one  as  he  would 

love,  A 4 

Dickens  in  Camp 301 

Different  Points  of  View 314 

Dirge  for  Fidele 16 

Dii-ge  for  a  Soldier 290 

Dirge  in  Cymbeline 63 

Doorstep,  The 2S5 

Dorothy  Q 219 

Doubt. 197 

Down  the  Slope 276 

Driving  Home  the  Cows 316 

Duddon,  To  the  River 103 

Duty,  Ode  to 102 

Each  and  All 200 

Edom  o'  Gordon 22 

Election,  The  Eve  of. 216 

Elegy 28 

Elegj'  on  Captain  Matthew  Henderson  ....     84 

Elegy  written  iu  a  Country  Churcliyard 60 

Epitaph,  A  Bard's , 83 

Epitaph  on  Elizabeth  L.  H 19 

EpithalamiunL 156 

Epithalaniium,  From  the 8 

Errand,  TheSoul's 5 

Eternal  Light 260 

Eton  College,  Ode  on  a  distant  Prospect  of    62 

Eva.  To 199 

EveljTi  Hope 203 

Eveuing  Hymn 29 

Evening,  Ode  to 64 

Evening  Song 177 

Eventide 258 

Faces,  The  old  familiar 120 

FMv  and  Unworthy 26 

Faith 175 

Family  Meeting,  The 169 

Farewell  to  the  Fairies 20 

Fate 318 

Fern,  The  Petrified 318 

Field  Preaching 256 

Fireside,  By  the 275 

l'i.shers,  The  Three 249 

Flag,  The  American 1.56 

Flowers,  The  Death  of  the 188 

Flower,  The 31 

Fly  to  the  Desert. 123 

For  one  tliat  hears  himself  much  praised . .  33 

Forest  Worship 142 

Forever  with  the  Lord 135 

Friend  Sorrow 278 

Fringed  Gentian,  To  the 189 

Funeral,  The  Fisherman's 334 

Garden  Song 198 

Garden,  Thoughts  in  a 34 

Gate,  Before  the 303 

Geneva,  The  Lake  of 126 

Genevieve 108 

Ghost  at  Noon,  A 142 

Glenara 138 

Glenlogie 78 

Gnome,  The  Green 284 

God  knoweth 307 

God,  The  Kingdom  of 241 

God,  Tlie  Love  of. 245 

God,  The  Will  of. 239 

Gold  Coin,  Ode  to  an  Indian 90 

Good  Morrow 26 


Gowan  glitters  on  the  Sward,  The 86 

Grougar  Hill 54 

Had  I  a  Heart  for  Falsehood  framed 79 

Hajipiness 4S 

Hark  !  hark  !  the  Lark kj 

Hawthorne '^n 

Health,  A i(;5 

Heart,  The  Memory  of  the 1 5() 

Heavenly  Land,  The .'i7 

Heaven,  The  Present 176 

Heaven,  There  was  Silence  in 1:6 

Herb  Rosemary,  To  the 92 

Hereafter 312 

Heritage,  The 224 

Her  last  Poem 255 

Hermit,  The 72 

Hi'ster 1^0 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  Cheek. 25 

Higldand  Mary 82 

House  iu  the  Meadow,  The 290 

Housekeeper,  The 120 

How  near  to  Good  i»  what  is  Fair 19 

Hymn 47,  146,  175 

Hymn,  A 52 

Hymn  before  Sunrise,  in  the  Vale  of  Cha- 

mouni 109 

Hymn  for  the  Mother 270 

Hymn  of  Nature l()2 

Hynm  of  the  Hebrew  Maid. 107 

Hymn  on  the  Nativity 35 

Hynui  to  Chri.st 325 

Hynm  to  the  Flowers 140 

Iconoclast,  The 258 

If  thou  wert  by  my  Side 143 

Illness,  Written  after  Recovery  from  a  Dan- 
gerous    90 

I  '11  never  love  thee  more 28 

Inchcape  Rock,  The 117 

Indian  Names 2(;0 

In  June 291 

In  Memoriam 340 

Inner  Calm,  The 247 

In  Prison :!9 

In  School-Days 215 

Inspiration 2:16 

In  the  Defences 288 

In  the  Mist 327 

In  the  Sea 298 

Intimations  of  Immortality 97 

Inward  Music 178 

Irish  Emigrant,  The 163 

Isaac  Ashford 89 

Island,  The 185 

Italian  Song. 81 

Italy.     A  Prophecy :!.H9 

"  It  IS  more  blessed  " 259 

"  I  will  abide  in  thine  House  " 277 

I  would  not  live  alway 162 

Jeanie  Morrison 150 

Jester's  Sermon,  The 293 

Jesus,  Lover  of  my  Soul 68 

John  Davidson 78 

Judge  not 278 

July  Dawning 335 

Keith  of  Ravelston 257 

Kindred  Hearts 154 

Knowing 2:!4 

Krumley 254 

Labor 175 


350 


INDEX   OF   SUBJECTS. 


Lady  Anne  Hamilton,  To  the S9 

La.ly  Barbara 204 

Laily  Mary  Ann 77 

Lament 1^7 

Lament  for  Astrophel  (Sii-  Philip  Sidney). .  7 

Lament  for  Flodden. .  ..: SS 

Land  o'  the  Leal,  The SO 

Landward. 2S7 

Laiis  Ueo  ! 21G 

Lay  of  the  Lnprisoned  Huntsman 10a 

Leader,  The  Lost 2U7 

Lent,  To  keep  a  true 31 

Liberty -41 

Life 75 

Lincoln,  Abraham 324 

Lincolnshire,  The  High  Tide  on  the  Coast  of  280 

Lines  to  my  Mother's  Picture 69 

Lines   written  in   Richmond   Churchyard, 

Yorkshire 93 

Listening  for  God 307 

Lochinvar,  Young 104 

Lord  Ullin's  Daughter 139 

Losses •'. 184 

Loss  of  the  Boyal  George G9 

Love 2 J9 

Love  and  Friendship 105 

Love  Divine,  all  Love  excelling 58 

Lovers,  The  Puritan 302 

Lover,  The 253 

Love,  The  Burial  of. 190 

Love  will  find  out  the  Way 19 

Lueasta,  To 30 

Lucy  's  Flittiu' 182 

Maidenhood 209 

Majesty  of  God 3 

Man,  The  Last 138 

March.. . .   297 

Mariana 195 

Mariner's  Hymn 1  IS 

Mariner's  Wife,  The 71 

Marriage 154 

Mary  in  Heaven,  To 83 

Mary  Morison 82 

Master's  Touch,  The 247 

Match,  A 2SS 

May 155 

May-Day  Song 20 

Mazzini 304 

Meeting,  The  Quiet 319 

Melanie,  Prom 172 

Memory 190 

Memory,  A 100 

Men  of  Old,  The 180 

Midwinter 320 

Milton's  Prayer  in  Blindness 237 

Jlind,  The  Immortal 120 

Mine  Own 333 

Ministry,  A  Bird's 321 

Minstrel's  Song  in  Ella,  The 79 

Mont  Blanc 120 

Morning. 177 

Morning  Hymn 40 

Morning  Meditations 100 

Morning  Street,  The 3l'S 

Moses,  The  Burial  of. 237 

M  other.  To  a  BereavedS 137 

Mountains,  The '202 

Mummy,  Address  to  an  Egj-ptian 141 

Muses,  To  the 80 

Music '20 

Musical  Instrument,  A 1 93 

My  Birthday 214 

My  Life  is  like  the  Summer  Rose 152 


My  Mind  to  me  a  Kingdom  is 15 

My  old  Kentucky  Nurse 3o3 

M-\'steries  of  Providence 71 

Myth,  A 250 

My  Times  are  in  tliy  Hand 240 

Nature,  The  Lessons  of 12 

Natui'e,  The  noble 18 

Nearer  Home 250 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee 245 

Never  again 287 

New  England  Spring 224 

New  Sinai,  The 242 

Niagara,  The  Fall  of 155 

Niglit  and  Death 89 

Night,  The  mid  Hour  of 124 

No  Age  content  with  his  own  Estate 3 

Not  (mrs  the  Vows 144 

November 287 

Nymph's  Reply,  The 5 

Of  a'  the  Airts  the  Wind  can  blaw 82 

or  Myself 40 

O  Lassie  ayont  the  Hill ! 270 

Old  Age  and  Death 40 

O  may  I  join  the  Choir  Invisible  ! 248 

One  Word  is  too  often  profaned 128 

Oriental  Idyl,  An 262 

O  Saviour!  whose  Mercy 178 

O  Thou  wlio  dry'st  the  Mourner's  tear 124 

Our  Heroes 289 

Our  JIary 169 

Outward  Bound 250 

Over  the  River 277 

O,  why  should  the  Spii'it  of  Mortal  be  proud  149 

Painter  who  pleased  Nobody  and  Everybody, 

The 50 

Palm  and  the  Pine,  The 181 

Pan  in  Wall  Street 285 

Paraphrase  of  Psalm  XXIII 47 

Parson,  Character  of  a  Good 46 

Passing  away 157 

Paul  Revere's  Ride 207 

Peace 257 

Petition  to  Time,  A 179 

Picture  of  Peele  Castle  in  a  Storm,  On  a. . .  101 

Pilgrim  Song 168 

Pilgrim,  The 5 

Pirate.  The 185 

Piscataqua  River 283 

Pleasure  mixed  with  Pain 4 

Poet  of  To-Day,  The 263 

Portrait  of  Red  Jacket,  On  a 106 

Prayer 39,  136 

Prayer  in  Sickness,  A 179 

Prayer,  The  Universal 48 

Pre-existence 309 

Primrose,  To  an  Early 92 

Problem  The ". 200 

Prophecv,  The  Soul's 202 

Psalm  of  Life,  A 209 

Puck,  The  Fairy  to 16 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus 244 

Queen  of  Bohemia,  To  his  Mistress,  the... .     13 
Quiet  from  God 244 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra 204 

Rain,  After  the 283 

Rain,  Before  the 283 

Ready 321 

Reason 46 

Recesses,  From  the 146 


INDEX  OF  SUBJECTS. 


351 


Resignation 39,  210 

Kest 32 

llevenge  of  Injuries 13 

KlK'iiu.s,  The  Jackdaw  of 150 

Hic-hes,  The  House  of 9 

Right  must  wiu.  The 239 

Rivers,  All  tlie 306 

Robin  Goodfellow 21 

Robinson  of  Leyden 221 

Rocky  Mountains  in  Winter,  after  many 

Years,  On  recrossing  the 335 

Royalty 241 

Ruth 161 

Sabbath,  The 174 

Saint  Agnes,  The  Eve  of 129 

Santa  Filomena 211 

Schoolmistress,  The 59 

Sea  Dirge,  A 16 

Sea-Limits,  The 295 

Search  after  God. 26 

Seen  and  Unseen 240 

Seneca  Lake,  To 155 

Sennacherib,  The  Destruction  of 125 

Serenade,  A 105 

Settler,  The 234 

Seven  times  Four 2S2 

Seven  times  Seven 282 

Shandon,  The  Bells  of 171 

Shay,  The  One-Hoss 221 

Shepherd-Boy,  The 253 

Sheplierd  to  his  Love,  The  passionate 4 

She  's  gane  to  dwall  in  Heaven 145 

She  walks  in  Beauty 125 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight 100 

Shirt,  The  Song  of  the 160 

Sic  Vita 27 

Siren's  Song,  The 25 

Sir  John  Moore,  The  Burial  of 152 

Sisters,  The 254 

S'ivlark,  To  a 127 

fclee;)  and  Death 232 

Sleep,  The 190 

Sleep,  To 103 

Sleei)y  Hollow 235 

Small  Beginnings 218 

Soldier's  Return,  The 87 

Song 25,  49,  105,  161,  313 

Song,  A 338 

Si>ng  for  Saint  Cecilia's  Day,  1687 45 

S  ng  of  a  Fellow-Worker 337 

Song  of  Hesperus IS 

Song  of  Ti-ust,  A 308 

Sonnet 168 

Sonnets 6,  17 

Soul,  The 11 

Soul,  The  Sabbath  of  the 74 

Soul,  The  Upright 269 

Sower,  The 329 

Spectre  Horse,  The 186 

Spirits,  Unseen 172 

Spring  in  Carolina 311 

Spring,  The  Late 291 

Stanzas 117 

Stanzas  written  In  Dejection  near  Naples. .  127 

Statue,  The 326 

Stream  of  Life,  The 243 

Strip  of  Blue,  A 274 

Submission 296 

Summer  Day,  A 10,  295 

Summer  Days 183 

Summer  Shower,  After  a 147 

Summons,  The  Fisherman's 336 

Sunflower.  The 272 


Sunlight  and  Starlight 277 

Sunset,  The  Golden 244 

Survivors,  The 2SS 

Swallow,  The  Departure  of  the 182 

Sweet  Home 153 

Tacking  Ship  off  Shore 311 

Take  thv  auld  Cloak  about  thee 24 

Temple,'  The  Living 219 

Thanatopsis 187 

The  BaiTing  o'  the  Door 24 

The  Boatie  rows 77 

The  Chambered  NautUus 223 

The  closing  Scene 279 

The  common  Lot 135 

"  The  Deserted  Village,"  From 65 

The  Evening  Cloud 146 

The  Friar  of  Orders  Gray 67 

The  Good  Man 13 

The  Grave  by  the  Lake 212 

The  larger  Hope 197 

The  Midges  dance  aboon  the  Bum 88 

The  Rapture  of  Kilmeny 121 

"  The  Rivulet,"  From 190 

The  sweet  Neglect 19 

Tliev  are  all  gone 33 

Thou  art,  O  God 124 

Thought 3 

Thou  hast  sworn  by  thy  God 145 

Thine  Eyes  still  shone 200 

Tibbie  Inglis 181 

Tiger,  The 85 

To-Day  and  To-Morrow 212 

Too  Late 250 

Touchstone,  The 217 

Trosachs,  The 105 

Trust 179 

Tubal  Cain 218 

Twenty-three,  On  arriving  at  the  Age  of. . .     38 
Two  Moods 337 

Una  and  the  Lion 8 

Unawares 305 

Under  Milton's  Picture 46 

Under  the  Greenwood-Tree 16 

Unseen 318 

Up  Above 2-17 

Urania 26S 

Urvasi 334 

Vanishers,  The 215 

Venice,  Sunrise  in 314 

Vespers 273 

Violets,  Under  the 223 

Virtue 31 

Virtuous,  The  Death  of  the 74 

Vision,  A 83 

Voiceless,  The 220 

Voyagers,  The 262 

Waiting 316,  327 

"  Walker  in  Nicaragua,"  From 313 

Waly,  waly,  but  love  be  bonny 70 

W^arnings,  The  three 73 

Waterfowl,  To  a 187 

Waters,  The  Meeting 273 

Way  to  sing.  The 295 

Way,  the  Truth,  and  the  Life,  The 239 

We  are  Brethren  a' 184 

Weary 272 

What  ails  this  Heart  o'  mine  ? 75 

What  is  the  Use  ? 321 

When  Maggie  gangs  away 121 

When  the  Grass  shall  cover  me 273 


352 


INDEX   OF   SUBJECTS. 


Whilst  thee  I  seek 136 

Wliile  Underneath 307 

AVIiv  thus  longing  ? 2&1 

Wish,  A SI 

Wishes 29 

Wishing 232 

Witness,  The  Sure 255 

Woman 252 

Wi  inian's  Love,  A 305 

Woman,  The  true 7 

Woods,  From  the 309 


Wordsworth 260 

Word,  The  Last 26S 

Work 337 

World,  The 103 

World,  The  Other 248 

Worlds,  The  Two 276 

Yarrow  Stream 75 

Yarrow,  The  Braes  of 56 

Yarrow  unvisited 101 

Ye  golden  Lamps  of  Heaven,  farewell ! 68 


THE   END. 


Cambridge  :  Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


PR 


C-  r 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


Series  94S2 


